PORTAL 


CHARLES 
NEVILLE 
BUCK 


OF  CALIF 


.  UBUARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 


*•> 


Sit  down !  "  he  thundered. 


PORTAL  OF 
DREAMS 

b    CHARLES  NEVILLE 


THE   KEY  T 


THE  LIGHTED  MATCH 
etc.  Illustrated 
FRANK 


NEW  .XORK 

W.  J  .WATT  <^  COMPANY 

PUBLISHER/ 


Copyright,  1912 

BY 
W.   J.   WATT  &  COMPANY 


Published  September 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  VISION  UPON  A  WARNING 5 

II.  PURSUING  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP 17 

III.  I  EMBARK  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND 30 

IV.  SOME  PASSAGES  FROM  A  DIARY 40 

V.  PREMONITIONS  BECOME  REALITIES 51 

VI.  THE  END  OF  THE  "  WASTREL  " 64 

VII.  IN  STRANGE  CIRCUMSTANCES 74 

VIII.  NATURE  INDULGES  IN  SATIRE 82 

IX.  A  PORTRAIT  AND  A  TEMPLE 93 

X.  I  SEEK  ORCHIDS 104 

XL  I  FIND  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD 112 

XII.  PORT  AND  STARBOARD  LIGHTS 122 

XIII.  ENTER  THE  INFANTRYMAN 132 

XIV.  THE  "ASH-TRASH  LADY" 145 

T 


2125734 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XV.  Two  DISCOVERIES  164 

XVI.  AN  INTERVIEW  AND  A  CRISIS 175 

XVII.  WE  Go  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 188 

XVIII.  A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOR 199 

XIX.  A  VOLLEY  FROM  THE  LAUREL 213 

XX.  A  CAVALCADE  FROM  THE  LAUREL 227 

XXI.  I  Go  WALKING  AND  MEET  ENEMIES 239 

XXII.  I  FAIL  TO  RETURN  HOME 249 

XXIII.  THE  OFFER  OF  PAROLE 260 

XXIV.  MY  DAY  IN  COURT 273 

XXV.  BEING  LAUGHED  AT 283 


THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 


THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 


CHAPTER  I 

A  VISION   UPON  A   WARNING 

THE  doctor  was  so  small  and  frail  that  his  narrow 
face  was  rescued  from  inconsequence  only  by  a 
trimly  cropped  Van-Dyck  with  a  dignified  sprink- 
ling of  gray.    I  always  felt  that,  should  I  ever  see  him  in 
a  bathing  suit,  I  would  have  to  seek  a  new  physician.     I 
could  never  again  think  of  him  as  sufficiently  grown-up  to 
practise  an  adult  vocation.    Yet  when  the  doctor  spoke 
his  mentality  issued  out  of  its  small  habitation  of  flesh 
and  expanded  to  commanding  proportion. 

The  little  doctor  was  in  fine  a  very  great  doctor,  and  on 
this  occasion  he  was  bullying  me  with  the  large  authority 
of  a  Bonaparte. 

"  But,  Doctor —  "  I  began  protestingly. 
He  raised  a  small  hand  which  suggested  the  claw  of  a 

5 


6  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

delicate  bird  and  fixed  me  with  quizzical  eyes  that  had 
the  faculty  of  biting  sharply  through  a  man's  unspoken 
thoughts. 

"  Don't  assume  to  say  '  but '  to  me,"  he  sternly  enjoined ; 
and  since  we  had  long  known  each  other,  not  only  as 
physician  and  patient,  but  also  as  men  who  breakfasted  at 
the  same  hour  and  the  same  club  table,  I  momentarily 
heeded. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  he  continued,  "  the  German 
Kaiser  presumed  to  question  a  pilot  on  his  imperial  yacht. 
Do  you  recall  the  result  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  don't,  but " 

Again  the  doctor  eyed  me,  basilisk  fashion,  across  the 
bacon  and  eggs  of  our  belated  morning  meal,  as  he  con- 
tinued : 

"  He  very  properly  reminded  the  Emperor  that  upon  a 
vessel  in  the  high  seas,  a  pilot  acknowledges  no  superior 
this  side  of  Eternity.  In  matters  of  health  I  take  the 
bridge.  You  obey." 

"But — "  I  weakly  insisted. 

"  You  presume  to  think  because  you  house  your  nerves 
in  a  well-muscled  body  that  they  are  infallible,"  he  im- 
placably continued.  "  I've  seen  rotten  motors  in  excellent 
garages.  I've  seen  unhappy  wives  immured  in  palaces, 
and  I've  seen  finer  figures  of  men  than  you  in  lunatic 
asylums." 


A  VISION  UPON  A  WARNING  7 

"  My  nerves  are  simply  of  the  high-strung  type,"  I 
argued. 

"  Those  are  the  kind  that  snap,"  retorted  the  sage.  "  If 
you  were  a  racehorse,  it  might  be  a  matter  of  reason- 
able pride  to  you  to  be  bred  in  the  purple.  Being  a  man 
with  no  avocation  except  the  spending  of  unearned 
money,  it  means  that  you  are  perilously  over-sensitized." 

"What  unpleasant  pedantry  are  you  leading  up  to?" 
I  demanded.  "  Out  with  it." 

"  I  mean  to.  You  have  the  artistic  temperament  which, 
without  genius,  is  worse  than  useless.  You  choose  to 
regard  yourself  a  failure  and  grow  morose  because  you 
have  found  the  law  uncongenial  and  because  editors  earn 
their  salaries  by  returning  your  manuscripts.  The  dura- 
bility of  your  nervous  system  depends  entirely  on  how 
you  utilize  the  next  five  years." 

"  Go  on,"  I  encouraged  him,  "  don't  mind  me.  Sen- 
tence me  to  death  if  it  amuses  you." 

"  It  won't  be  death,  but  unless  you  fortify  those 
nerves,"  he  calmly  went  on,  "  there  probably  will  be 
disaster.  It  may  take  any  one  of  several  forms." 

"  As,  for  instance  ? "  I  inquired,  with  pardonable 
curiosity. 

"  Oh,  arterio-sclerosis,  paralysis,  insanity,  something  of 
that  sort." 


8  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  Thank  you  kindly,"  I  murmured,  as  I  reached  for 
the  matches.  "  Can  I  have  my  choice  of  the  lot?  " 

"  However,"  went  on  the  big  little  doctor,  "  if  you 
devote  the  next  few  years  to  a  program  of  diversified 
travel,  you  ought  to  lay  up  an  account  of  nerve-strength 
upon  which  you  can  draw  ad  lib.  for  forty  or  fifty  years  to 
come.  You  should  even  have  a  surplus  against  the  unfor- 
tunate exigency  of  living  on  when  you  are  old  and 
useless." 

"  But  I  have  traveled,"  I  argued.    "  I've  been  to— 

He  interrupted  me  with  a  snort,  and  swept  my  declara- 
tions aside,  unfinished. 

"You  have  dabbled  at  travel,  like  a  school-girl  nibbles 
at  chocolates.  Get  out  on  the  hike  and  stay  out  for  a 
year  or  two.  Build  into  your  artificial  self  something  of 
the  out-door  animal.  You  have  a  fair  start — you  were 
once  an  athlete."  He  rose  to  go  down  to  his  motor,  and 
I  shouted  after  him  contemptuous  and  profane  criticism. 
Nevertheless  within  the  week  I  booked  passage  for  the 
Mediterranean. 

I  found  once  more  that  Europe  and  the  African  fringe 
of  the  land-locked  sea  have  to  offer  to  the  hunger  of  the 
wanderlust  only  a  stereotyped  table-d'hote.  Shortly  it 
cloys.  Within  several  weeks  one  thing  only  had  prom- 
ised to  break  the  stagnant  surface  with  a  riffle  of 
interest.  And  that  one  thing  puzzled  me  in  no  small 


degree,  since  it  was  not  such  a  matter  as  would  ordinarily 
have  challenged  my  attention.  I  have  passed  with  a 
glance  many  beautiful  women,  and  felt  no  need  to  turn 
my  head  for  a  further  inspection.  I  am  not  of  the  cava- 
liering  type,  and  yet  here  I  was  finding  myself  interested, 
in  a  strange  and  indefinable  way,  in  a  woman  whose  face 
I  had  not  seen,  and  whose  name  I  did  not  know.  That, 
I  told  myself,  was  the  secret  of  it.  It  was  exactly 
because  she  was  elusive,  mysterious  in  fashion,  that  I 
found  my  flat  interest  piqued.  I  never  had  more  than 
the  swish  of  her  skirt  or  a  glimpse  of  her  retreating  fig- 
ure, until  it  came  about  that  sheer  inquisitiveness  gave  her 
an  augmented  importance.  At  all  events,  she  had  eluded 
me  over  southern  Europe  from  Genoa  to  Constantinople, 
and  thence  into  Egypt,  and  I  wanted  to  see  her  face.  It 
was  at  Naples  that  I  had  my  first  hasty  and  imperfect 
view  of  her.  I  was  hurrying  through  the  Galeria 
Umberto,  on  my  way  to  a  luncheon  appointment  for 
which  I  found  myself  late.  As  I  passed  Merola's  a 
young  woman  was  sitting  before  a  counter,  with  her  back 
to  the  street,  trying  on  gloves.  I  could  appreciate  the 
gypsy  grace  of  her  figure,  which  was  slender,  because  one 
of  the  avocations  into  which  I  have  essayed  without  dis- 
tinction is  painting.  The  single  thing  at  which  I  have 
not  failed,  except  the  success  of  having  selected  parents 
who  bequeathed  me  money,  is  an  appreciation  of  the 


10  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

beautiful.  That  appreciation,  despite  my  hurry,  brought 
me  to  a  stop  for  a  full  glance  at  her;  but  there  was  no 
mirror  at  any  part  of  the  shop  which  gave  me  a  reflection 
of  her  averted  face,  and  as  rny  appointment  was  imper- 
ative, I  refrained  from  going  in  to  buy  gloves.  But 
there  was  something  so  exquisite  in  her  bearing,  and  in 
the  tasteful  lines  of  her  simple  traveling  gown,  that  I 
caught  myself  thinking  of  her.  Then  as  I  went  down  to 
the  quay  a  day  later  to  say  farewell  to  some  friends,  just 
as  the  gangplank  of  an  outgoing  steamer  was  about  to  be 
drawn  up,  I  saw  her  hurrying  across  it.  Her  face  was 
still  averted.  I  strained  to  catch  a  feature,  but  a  way- 
ward gust  of  bay  breeze  wrapped  a  filmy  veil  about  the 
profile  which  was  for  a  moment  turned  my  way — and  hid 
it.  She  did  not  house  at  the  deck  rail  but  disappeared  as 
the  gangplank  came  up  and  cut  off  pursuit.  But  I  had 
added  to  my  first  impression  the  knowledge  that  she  did 
not  merely  walk.  She  soared  as  though  her  feet  were  the 
sandals  of  Hermes,  and  she  carried  herself  with  the 
splendid  grace  of  a  slender  young  queen. 

The  luncheon  appointment,  which  had  thwarted  my 
impulse  to  turn  into  the  glove  shop,  and  so  end  the 
mystery  in  its  incipiency,  brought  a  long  trail  of  com- 
plications and  caused  me  to  envy  those  fortunate  men 
who  are  not  handicapped  by  the  possession  of  relatives. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  truly  ideal  existence 


young  woman  was  sitting  before  a  counter,  with  her  back  to  the 
street,   trying   on  gloves. 


A  VISION  UPON  A  WAENING  11 

would  be  to  be  born  an  orphan  unhampered  by  cousins, 
aunts  or  any  of  those  human  beings  who  are  privileged  to 
make  demands  upon  our  times  and  thoughts. 

From  the  moment  when  I  watched  the  sky-line  of  New 
York  sink  slowly  behind  the  horizon  until  I  reached 
Naples  I  had  at  least  been  a  free  agent.  But  hardly  had 
I  signed  my  guest  card  at  Parker's  Hotel  and  strolled  out 
to  hail  a  crazy  Neapolitan  hack  when  the  angular  and 
purposeful  figure  of  my  Aunt  Sarah  loomed  up  in  the 
near  foreground  and — saving  her  grace — eclipsed  the 
picturesqueness  of  the  town  and  the  distant  cone  of 
Vesuvius.  I  had  known  vaguely  that  this  estimable  lady 
was  beating  her  way  about  Europe,  guide-booked  and 
grimly  set  upon  self-improvement,  but  I  had  hoped  to 
keep  the  area  of  two  or  three  monarchies  between  us. 

I  knew  that  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  Cook's 
Agencies  she  would  be  flitting  with  the  same  frantic 
energy  that  characterizes  the  industry  of  the  ant.  That 
I  should  myself  pass  within  hailing  distance  of  her  party 
or  be  recruited  in  her  peregrinations  was  a  disaster  which 
I  had  not  anticipated.  None  the  less  the  blow  had  fallen 
and  I  had  walked  unwarned  into  the  ambuscade  of  her 
fond  embrace.  Aunt  Sarah  would  now  converse  volu- 
minously of  cathedrals  and  old  masters,  and  all  the 
things  upon  which  tourists  are  fed  to  a  point  of  acute 
mental  dyspepsia. 


12  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

She  had  ordered  me  to  luncheon  with  much  the  same 
finality  as  that  with  which  royalty  commands  the  atten- 
dance of  guests  at  court.  I  had  gone  meekly  though 
doing  so  involved  passing  Merola's  and  opened  up  a 
series  of  events  which  were  destined  to  alter  for  the  worse 
my  immediate  future.  But  the  luncheon  had  been  only 
the  beginning,  and  greater  misfortunes  were  to  follow  in 
due  order. 

I  have  never  since  been  able  to  understand  precisely 
what  form  of  paresis  seized  upon  me,  and  paralyzed  my 
normally  efficient  power  of  lying,  when  she  instructed  me 
to  attach  myself  to  her  party  for  a  motor  trip  to  Ville- 
f  ranche  and  Nice.  I  do  know  that  no  available  mendacity 
occurred  to  my  shocked  brain  and  I  found  myself  murmur- 
ing an  acceptance.  The  acceptance  was  again  meek  and 
spineless.  I  had  discovered  at  luncheon  that  Aunt  Sarah, 
with  that  motherly  obsession  which  appears  to  charac- 
terize many  maiden  ladies  of  fifty  and  beyond,  had  under 
wing  a  party  of  three  young  ladies  who  were  capping  off 
their  educations  with  the  post  graduate  "advantages"  of 
the  grand  tour.  That  these  young  ladies  possessed  all 
the  homely  virtues,  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt.  Their 
faces  and  figures  attested  the  homeliness  and  their  virtue 
was  such  that  they  seemed  always  wondering  whether 
their  halos  were  on  straight.  Theirs  was  an  insatiate 
greed  for  intellectual  feeding.  They  browsed  through 


A  VISION  UPON  A  WARNING  13 

their  Baedeckers  with  a  seeming  terror  lest  something 
erudite  escape  them.  They  pursued  and  captured  and 
assimilated  every  fleeting  fact  which  might  improve  their 
minds.  Until  my  captivity  they  had  no  man  with  their 
party.  That  was  probably  because  Aunt  Sarah  had  made 
the  strategic  mistake  of  permitting  all  those,  whom  she 
might  otherwise  have  annexed,  to  see  her  girls.  She 
should  have  enlisted  her  male  escort  first  and  held  back 
the  introductions  until  desertion  was  impracticable.  At 
all  events,  I  had,  like  the  imbecile  I  was,  "  fallen  for  it," 
and  surrendered  my  liberty.  When  the  boat  bearing  the 
unknown  divinity  set  sail  I  was  merely  a  satellite  of  Aunt 
Sarah's  constellation  and  no  longer  a  free  agent. 

Because  I  happened  to  be,  in  a  superficial  way,  familiar 
with  the  tourist-tramped  sections  of  the  Continent,  I 
became  a  sort  of  gentleman  courier,  without  recompense, 
and  because  I  had  once  undertaken  to  be  a  painter,  I  was 
expected  to  give  extemporaneous  lectures  on  the  art 
treasury  of  the  museums.  We  walked  several  thousand 
miles,  or  maybe  it  was  millions,  over  those  peculiarly 
hard  floors  which  make  art  galleries  penitential  institu- 
tions. I  saw  the  three  plain  faces  in  every  phase  of  soul- 
ful rapture  that  can  be  elicited  by  the  labors  of  the 
masters,  from  Michelangelo  to  Murillo. 

When  this  had  gone  on  for  several  centuries,  or  maybe 
it  was  aeons,  I  discovered  that  every  art  gallery  has  two 


14  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

or  three  truly  interesting  features,  though  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  these  was  denied  me.  I  speak  of  the  exits. 
Perhaps  to  the  unintimidated  mind  of  the  outsider  it  may 
appear  that  whatever  agonies  I  underwent  were  the 
deserved  result  of  my  own  abjectness.  It  is  easy  to  say 
'that  I  might  have  pleaded  other  plans  and  gone  on  my 
way  enfranchised.  To  such  a  critic  my  only  and  suffi- 
cient reply  is  that  he  or  she  does  not  know  my  Aunt 
Sarah.  My  Aunt  Sarah  says  to  whomsoever  she 
chooseth,  "  Go,"  and  he  goeth;  "  Come,"  and  he  cometh. 
She  knew  perfectly  well  that  I  had  no  other  plans.  She 
correctly  assumed  me  to  be  a  derelict  floating  without 
purpose  and  with  my  chart  lost  over-side.  She  virtuously 
resolved  that  for  once  I  should  be  made  of  use,  in  assist- 
ing to  improve  the  minds  of  the  three  plain  young  ladies. 
Lying  would  have  been  quite  futile.  Consequently  she 
said,  "  Come,"  and  I  came.  When  I  learned  that  we 
were  to  make  the  tour  to  the  Riviera  towns  by  motor,  I 
welcomed  the  suggestion  as  a  less  evil  than  cathedral  . 
and  art  galleries.  At  least  we  should  be  out  of  doors  and 
in  the  exhilaration  of  rapid  motion  one  might  hope  to 
forget  the  three  young  ladies  at  brief  and  blessed  inter- 
vals. One  could  not  at  the  same  time  think  of  the 
culture-pursuing  trio  and  anything  rapid. 

It  has  been  my  curse  in  life  that  I  have  dabbled  at  so 
many  things  that  I  can  be  made  of  smattering  use  in 


A  VISION  UPON  A  WARNING  15 

almost  any  circumstance.  Our  chauffeur  discovered  this 
three  and  one-half  minutes  after  the  occurrence  of  our 
first  blow-out,  when  Aunt  Sarah,  taking  pity  upon  his 
sweating  and  dust-grimed  brow,  told  me  off  to  help  him 
patch  the  puncture.  After  that  it  was  impossible  to 
feign  ignorance  as  to  the  interior  workings  and  deviltries 
of  motor  cars. 

The  Upper  Corniche  Road  is  perhaps  the  most  charm- 
ing driveway  of  the  world — and  I  say  this  with  due  rever- 
ence to  Amalfi.  By  a  road  as  white  as  a  fresh  table- 
cloth and  as  smooth  as  a  bowling  alley  one  speeds  to  the 
purring  of  his  motor  along  the  way  thrown  up  for  the 
tramping  feet  of  Bonaparte's  battalions.  From  a  com- 
manding height  the  traveler  looks  down,  as  from  the  roof 
of  the  world,  with  close  kinship  of  peaks  and  clouds, 
upon  a  panorama  a-riot  with  breadth  and  depth  and  color. 
Fascinating  road-houses  of  stucco  walls  curtained  behind 
a  profusion  of  clambering  roses  tempt  one  to  pause  and 
take  his  ease  to  the  tinkle  of  guitars  and  mandolins.  But 
Aunt  Sarah  and  the  girls,  ever  bent  upon  reaching  the 
next  cathedral  with  a  stained  glass  window  or  the  next 
dingy  canvas  of  a  saint  sitting  on  a  cloud,  were  scarcely 
amenable  to  the  lure  of  road-house  temptation. 

They  seemed  to  regard  Europe  as  a  transitory  effect 
which  might  fade  like  the  glories  of  sunset  before  they 


16  THE  POKTAL  OF  DKEAMS 

had  finished  seeing  it,  and  anything  savoring  of  the 
dilatory  aroused  their  suspicion. 

Far  below  us  lay  the  outspread  Mediterranean,  blue 
beyond  description  and  upon  her  placid  bosom  sailboats 
shrunk  to  the  size  of  swallows  and  yachts  seemed  no 
larger  than  nursery  toys. 

One  gracious  afternoon,  while  I  was  occupying  the 
front  seat  beside  the  driver,  I  almost  attained  a  state  of 
contentment.  I  was  pretending  that  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  human  freight  in  the  tonneau.  My  eyes  were 
drinking  in  the  smiling  beauty  framed  by  the  wide 
horizon,  when  suddenly  the  droning  of  the  motors  fell 
quiet  and  with  no  warrantable  reason  the  automobile  slid 
to  a  halt  and  declined  to  proceed  farther. 


CHAPTER  II 
PURSUING  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP 

AUNT  SARAH  and  the  girls  were  much  annoyed 
and  their  annoyance  did  not  grow  less  when,  after 
a  half-hour  of  diagnosis,  the  chauffeur  emerged, 
grease-stained  and  exhausted  from  under  the  car,  shaking 
his  head.     He  frankly  admitted  that  his  worm's  eye  view 
had   failed  to  enlighten  him  as  to  the  trouble.     Aunt 
Sarah  turned  upon  me  eyes  mirroring  a  faith  sufficient 
to  move  even  stalled  motor  cars. 

"  I  am  sure,  my  dear,"  she  said,  sweetly,  "  your 
mechanical  aptitude  can  find  a  remedy  for  this  difficulty." 
It  was,  of  course,  an  order  to  burrow  into  the  confined 
space  between  the  road  bed  and  the  bottom  of  the  car, 
and  of  course  I  burrowed.  For  a  time  I  was  out  of 
touch  with  all  matters  transpiring  in  the  great  outer 
world,  but  finally  I  saw  the  inverted  face  of  our  chauffeur 
gazing  in  upon  me  and  heard  his  bellowing  voice.  I  have 
hitherto  neglected  to  mention  that  our  chauffeur  was 

17 


18  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

neither  French  nor  Italian,  but  Irish.  He  was,  in  fact, 
an  excellent  fellow,  and  the  only  member  of  our  party 
whom  I  found  companionable. 

"  Sure,  sor,"  he  yelled,  "  there's  another  car  in  trouble 
just  around  th'  turn  av'  th'  road." 

I  supposed  that  he  was  imparting  this  information  only 
out  of  the  assumption  that  misery  loves  company,  and 
inasmuch  as  my  reply  was  profane,  it  need  not  be  quoted. 
In  a  moment  more,  however,  his  grinning  visage  reap- 
peared at  the  road  level.  "  They  wants  to  know  if  you 
can't  be  afther  lending  'em  a  tire-iron  ? " 

"  What  do  they  think  this  is  ?  "  I  roared  back,  squirm- 
ing far  enough  to  clear  my  face  for  utterance,  but  not  far 
enough  to  see  what  was  going  on.  "  This  isn't  a  repair 
crew." 

It  was  hardly  a  gracious  response  to  a  fellow  motorist 
in  trouble,  but  my  point  of  view  was  oppressed  with  the 
weight  of  a  paralyzed  car,  and  Aunt  Sarah  and  the  girls, 
and  I  was  misanthropic  to  the  degree  of  sourness.  From 
my  position  whatever  conversation  ensued  was  merely  an 
incoherent  babble  of  voices.  Palpably,  despite  my  dis- 
courtesy, Mr.  Flannery  had  supplied  the  inquirers  with 
whatever  they  needed,  and  they  had  gone  their  way.  I, 
in  the  course  of  the  next  few  minutes,  emerged  from  my 
hedge-hog  isolation,  tinkered  with  the  carburetor,  and 
crawled  back  again  into  concealment.  Then  someone 


PURSUING  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  19 

returned  the  borrowed  tire-iron.  I  did  not  have  the 
opportunity  to  speak  to  the  Someone,  and  I  should  not 
have  seen  the  Someone  at  all  had  I  not  happened  to  catch 
the  shouted  words  of  Mr.  Flannery.  Mr.  Flannery  had 
so  accustomed  himself  to  pitting  his  voice  against 
machinery  that  even  in  moments  of  quiet  he  hurled  his 
words  like  the  roar  of  a  bull.  So,  as  he  spoke  now  to 
the  unknown  person,  I  recognized  an  allusion  to  myself. 
The  words  which  set  me  to  extricating  myself  as  speedily 
as  possible  from  my  humble  position  were  as  follows : 

"  Sure,  ma'am,  th'  boss  would  be  afther  bein'  more 
polite  to  yer,  only  the  car  is  layin'  a  little  heavy  on  his 
stummick,  and  it  gives  him  a  bit  of  a  grouch." 

The  word  which  excited  me  was  the  "  ma'am,"  and  my 
excitement  was  no  means  allayed  when  I  stood  clear  in 
the  road  and  saw  just  disappearing  around  a  curve  a  figure 
which  I  recognized.  It  could  be  no  other  figure,  for  no 
other  figure  that  I  had  ever  seen  could  walk  with  the  same 
triumphant  and  lissome  grace.  Again  the  face  was  turned 
away  from  me,  and  about  her  hat  floated  a  confusing 
cloud  of  veil.  But  she  had  been  there  within  a  few  feet 
and  possibly  had  even  heard  my  surly  responses  to  her 
request  for  assistance.  Possibly  she  had  seen  my  wrig- 
gling feet  while  I,  who  would  have  esteemed  it  the 
greatest  possible  privilege  to  have  assisted  her  in  any  way, 
had  lain  there  surrounded  by  dust  and  profanity.  I  was 


20  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

seized  with  a  mad  impulse  to  run  after  her,  but  I 
knew  that  the  return  of  my  iron  signified  that  their  tire- 
mending  was  finished  and  they  were  on  their  journey. 

My  own  repairs  were  not  finished,  and  I  stood  there 
with  streaks  of  grease  across  my  face,  caked  with  dust 
and  by  no  means  presenting  the  appearance  with  which  a 
man  might  hope  to  appear  acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  di- 
vinity. Aunt  Sarah  and  her  bevy  of  young  intellectuals,  I 
found,  had  withdrawn  to  the  greater  comfort  of  a  near-by 
road-house,  and  could  give  me  no  information,  while 
Flannery's  description  was  on  the  whole,  unsatisfactory. 
The  idiot  had  not  asked  her  name,  and  in  answer  to  all  my 
questions  could  only  assure  me  vaguely  that  the  young 
lady  was  "  a  peach."  One  thing  he  had  noticed.  The 
car,  which  had  passed  us  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  was 
a  large  blue  touring  car,  of  high  horse-power.  It  is 
strange  what  details  impress  certain  minds  and  what  goes 
unseen.  So  again  I  had  missed  my  chance,  and  the  inci- 
dent had  not  served  to  reconcile  me  to  my  serfdom. 

Several  days  later  I  had  succeeded  in  gaining  a  brief 
leave  of  absence  from  my  duties  as  courier,  and  was 
spending  an  interval  of  sadly  needed  rest. 

I  had  the  hope  that  the  unknown  girl  and  her  party 
would  be  stopping  for  a  while  in  one  of  the  closely 
grouped  towns  along  the  coast:  Nice,  Cannes,  Mentone, 
Monte  Carlo — it  mattered  little  which  one  it  might  be.  If 


PURSUING  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  21 

she  was  in  any  of  these,  I  should  eventually  find  her,  and 
I  haunted  the  dazzling  whiteness  of  the  Boulevard  des 
Anglais,  with  a  buoyant  pulse  beat  of  expectancy.  At 
any  moment  I  might  again  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  in  a  shop 
or  cafe,  and  if  I  did,  I  meant  that  it  should  be  more  than 
a  glimpse,  and  that  she  should  not  again  escape  until  I 
had  at  least  seen  her  face.  I  spent  most  of  my  time 
wondering  what  she  was  like.  Would  the  full  view 
bring  a  greater  sense  of  fascination  or  the  pang  of  dis- 
illusionment ?  It  might  be  that  when  I  saw  her  I  should 
find  myself  harshly  awakened  from  a  dream,  but  at  all 
events,  there  would  be  certainty,  and  an  end  to  the  tan- 
talizing sense  of  following  a  will-o'-the-wisp  which  con- 
stantly eluded.  She  gave  me  one  very  anxious  afternoon. 
I  had  been  taking  a  horseback  ride  near  town  when  I 
came  upon  a  wrecked  and  empty  automobile.  The  physi- 
cal facts  showed  clearly  what  had  happened.  The  car 
had  evidently  skidded  while  speeding,  in  an  effort  to  turn 
out  for  some  passing  vehicle,  and  had  tried  to  climb  a 
stone  wall.  There  must  have  been  a  very  ugly  moment, 
as  the  twisted  front  wheels  and  crumpled  hood  attested. 
What  frightened  me  was  the  fact  that  it  was  a  large, 
blue  touring  car  of  the  same  sort,  if  not  identical,  with 
the  one  described  by  Flannery.  I  was  commencing  my 
ride  when  I  saw  it,  but  I  turned  back  at  once  to  town 
and  began  an  investigation.  I  finally  learned  that  the 


22  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

chauffeur  for  a  local  garage  had  taken  a  party  of  his  own 
friends  for  a  joy  ride,  and  that  the  expedition  had  come 
to  summary  grief.  My  effort  to  trace  the  history  of  that 
particular  car  for  a  week  or  two  past  resulted  in  nothing. 
I  was  informed  that  it  had  been  hired  many  times  and  to 
many  unrecorded  persons,  usually  for  the  afternoon  or 
day.' 

k.  Several  nights  later  I  was  sitting  at  a  roulette  table  in 
Monte  Carlo's  Cercle  des  Etrangers.  I  had  fallen  in  with 
a  coterie  of  chance  acquaintances,  who  for  some  reason 
held  faith  in  my  luck  and  insisted  upon  my  crowding  into 
a  vacant  place  at  the  wheel.  My  function  was  to  submit 
to  the  issue  of  fortune  not  only  my  own  stack  of  louts 
for,  but  also  the  considerable  purse  that  they  had  raised 
among  them. 

My  table  was  near  the  center  of  the  main  salle,  and  at 
my  elbows  crowded  the  little  party  of  men  and  women 
whose  interests  hung  upon  my  success  or  failure.  It  was 
the  same  old  scene;  the  same  old  life  that  one  sees  year 
after  year  in  this  chief  cathedral  of  the  gods  of  chance. 
Men  and  women  from  both  hemispheres  stood  or  sat  in 
the  tense  absorption  of  eyes  riveted  on  dancing  ball  and 
whirling  disc.  At  my  right  was  a  regally  gowned  woman 
whose  delicate  features  were  now  as  hard  as  agate  and 
whose  eyes  were  avid.  At  my  left  was  a  saturnine 
Spaniard  who  smiled  indifferently,  but  who  did  not  know 


PUBSUIXG  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  23 

liis  cigar  had  died  to  a  stale  coldness.  I  was  experienc- 
ing the  sense  of  disillusionment  which  invariably  comes 
to  me  afresh  when  I  enter  the  Casino  of  Monaco.  I 
always  ascend  the  stairs  of  the  palace  which  the  princi- 
pality-supporting syndicate  has  provided  for  its  patrons 
with  a  mild  elation  of  expectancy.  I  always  take  my 
place  at  the  tables  with  the  realization  of  disappointment. 
The  sparkle  of  jewels  is  there;  sometimes  the  beauty  is 
there,  but  the  spirit  that  rules  is  not  a  spirit  of  gaiety; 
and  the  glitter  of  eyes  makes  me  forget  the  diamonds. 
The  cold  lust  of  greed  flashes  in  the  hard  brightness  of 
set  faces. 

Between  the  droning  announcements  of  the  croupier 
insidious  thoughts  force  themselves.  I  think  of  the  man- 
agement's efficient  ambulance  services;  of  the  exhaus- 
tive arrangements  by  which  unknown  patrons  may  be 
promptly  identified ;  and  the  sinister  discoveries  of  the 
beach.  These  things  were  in  my  mind  now  as  the  stack 
of  gold  pieces  at  my  front  alternately  piled  and  dwindled 
under  a  fitful  sequence  of  petty  losses  and  gains. 

I  may  have  been  at  the  table  an  hour  when  I  began 
to  have  the  insistent  feeling  of  someone  in  particular 
standing  at  my  back.  Of  course,  there  were  many  people 
behind  me.  Besides  my  own  party  was  the  crowd  of  idle 
onlookers  as  well  as  others  who  were  impatiently  waiting 
to  seize  upon  vacant  places  about  the  board. 


24  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

And  yet,  just  then  I  could  not  turn  my  head.  My 
system  involved  leaving  the  winnings  upon  the  table  for 
three  successive  spins  of  the  wheel.  I  had  played  a  group 
of  numbers  in  the  black,  cautiously  avoiding  the  alluring 
perils  of  the  greater  odds,  and  twice  my  little  pile  of 
louis  d'or  had  drawn  in  its  prize  money.  On  the  third 
spin  we  stood  to  lose  the  entire  amount  of  our  augmented 
stake  or  see  our  pile  swell  commandingly.  While  I 
waited  for  the  croupier  to  close  the  betting  and  touch  the 
button,  I  twisted  my  head  backward,  to  determine  whose 
presence  in  the  throng  had  so  subtly  announced  itself  to 
my  consciousness.  But  the  barrier  of  faces  that  pressed 
close  against  my  chair  cut  off  all  who  stood  further  back. 
The  wheel  raced ;  the  ball  danced  madly  about  its  rim ;  the 
crowd  stood  bating  its  breath ;  and  the  scattered  piles  of 
gold  lay  in  doubt  on  the  green  baize  diagram. 

It  was  over.  The  croupier  sang  out  the  winning 
number,  column  and  combinations.  The  rake  was 
extended  to  push  over  to  me  a  fairly  imposing  pile  of 
French  gold.  I  was  conscious  of  coming  in  for  more 
than  my  individual  share  of  interest.  Luck  had  been 
with  me,  and  at  Monte  Carlo,  the  lucky  man  is  the  man 
of  moment.  But  the  sense  of  some  personality  above 
the  many  personalities  was  now  borne  in  upon  me  with 
irritating  force.  I  was  impatient  to  rise  and  push  back 
my  chair  and  look  about  me,  but  as  I  attempted  to  do  so, 


PURSUING  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  25 

the  men  and  women  whose  capital  I  had  increased  raised 
a  chorus  of  remonstrance.  I  reluctantly  resumed  the 
place  which  I  had  been  about  to  abdicate  and  once  more 
laid  out  my  stake.  This  time  I  pushed  the  entire  pile  out 
onto  the  green  cloth  in  a  pyramid  on  the  black.  I  knew 
if  I  lost  it  they  would  willingly  surrender  my  services. 
Even  at  that  cost  I  wanted  freedom. 

For,  in  the  moment  that  I  had  been  standing  there,  I 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  retreating  figure,  which  dis- 
appeared through  the  door,  almost  at  the  instant  that  my 
eyes  identified  it.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  woman  in  even- 
ing-dress, or  rather,  I  should  say,  of  the  woman  in  even- 
ing-dress. There  was  the  same  graceful  majesty  of  bear- 
ing, the  same  slim  grace — and  the  same  averted  face.  But 
because  I  wished  to  leave  the  table  fortune  pursued  me. 
Spin  after  spin  doubled,  tripled,  quadrupled  my  swelling 
pile  of  money.  Finally  I  told  them  that  I  would  remain 
for  three  more  tests  of  chance — but  no  more.  I  could 
hardly  abandon  these  enthused  men  and  women  without 
warning,  but  as  soon  as  I  had  fulfilled  the  obligation,  I 
rose,  and  I  fear  there  was  more  of  precipitate  haste  than 
of  courtesy  in  my  manner  of  shouldering  my  way  through 
the  press  of  onlookers,  to  the  door  and  the  wonderful 
embroidery  of  flower  beds  before  the  casino.  Eyes 
followed  me,  for  my  luck  had  held  and  I  was  a  momentary 
sensation.  It  was  still  early,  as  hours  go  in  a  place  where 


26 

the  major  activity  belongs  to  night  life,  and  for  two  hours 
I  haunted  the  cafes  and  boulevards  without  result.  The 
next  day  proved  equally  fruitless,  but  that  night,  as  I  was 
idling  with  my  after-dinner  cigar,  along  the  Boulevard  de 
Condemine,  I  saw  strolling  at  some  distance  ahead  of  me, 
a  young  man  and  a  girl.  It  was  she,  and  I  had  only  to 
hasten  my  steps  to  overtake  and  see  her.  I  could  guess 
that  the  man  with  her  was  a  Frenchman.  The  cut  of  his 
clothes  and  the  jaunty  swagger  of  his  bearing  were  dis- 
tinctively Gallic.  My  imagination  could  read  the  title 
"  fortune  hunter  "  as  though  it  were  embroidered  on  his 
coat-tails. 

I  was  resentful,  and  hurried  on,  but  as  usual  I  was 
destined  to  disappointment.  An  untimely  and  inconse- 
quential acquaintance  loomed  up  in  my  path,  and  when  I 
attempted  to  brush  hastily  by  him,  he  slapped  me  on  the 
back  and  hailed  me  with  that  most  irritating  of  all  con- 
ceivable forms  of  address,  "  Well,  how  is  the  boy 
to-night?" 

He  did  not  find  the  "  boy  "  particularly  affable  that 
night,  but  with  an  accursed  and  persistent  geniality  he 
succeeded  in  delaying  me  for  the  space  of  a  few  precious 
moments.  At  a  distance,  I  saw  her  disappear  into  a 
lighted  doorway  against  which  her  face  and  figure  showed 
only  in  silhouette.  Again  I  had  lost  her.  I  could  hardly 
pursue  her  into  the  entrances  of  private  houses,  but  I 


PTJESmXG  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  27 

noted  the  location  and  went  back  to  my  apartments  in  the 
Hotel  Hermitage  with  the  comforting  thought  that  we 
were  in  the  same  town  and  that  by  rising  early  the  next 
morning,  and  searching  tirelessly  till  midnight,  I  should 
ultimately  be  able  to  see  her. 

Before  sleep  came  to  me  a  telegram  was  brought  to  my 
door. 

Aunt  Sarah  had  succeeded  in  becoming  involved  in 
some  ludicrous  difficulty  with  the  Italian  customs  offi- 
cials. She  implored  that  I  come  at  once  to  her  rescue. 
How  she  had  achieved  it,  was  a  matter  of  inscrutable 
mystery.  I  had  always  found  the  politeness  of  Italian 
customs  officers  as  gracious  as  a  benediction,  but  Aunt 
Sarah  was  a  resourceful  person.  I  rejoined  her  detesta- 
ble cortege  long  enough  to  extricate  her  from  her  newest 
difficulty,  and  to  discuss  with  her  her  plans  for  the  im- 
mediate future.  I  found  that  she  and  her  young  ladies 
were  yearning  for  the  sepia  tinted  walls  of  Rome  where, 
under  every  broken  column  and  crumbling  arch  their 

mgry  souls  might  drink  deep  draughts  of  improving 

idition  and  culture.  I  knew  that  they  would  waste  no 
musing  by  moonlight  in  the  shadows  of  the  Colos- 
i,  but  that  with  Latin  dictionaries  they  would  decipher 

the  broad  light  of  day  the  inscriptions  on  the  arcs  of 
Titus  and  Constantine.  None  the  less,  I  encouraged  their 
lea  and  enlarged  upon  the  suitability  of  this  time.  I 


28  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

looked  up  the  train  schedules  and  wired  for  hotel  reserva- 
tions. Every  moment  that  they  hesitated  I  was  excitedly 
quoting,  though  not  aloud,  lines  that  came  back  from  the 
days  of  a  less-mature  literary  taste: 

"'Why  dost  thou  stay  and  turn  away, 
Here  lies  the  path  to  Rome.' " 

I  thought  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  refrain  from  mention- 
ing until  the  actual  moment  of  their  departure  that  my 
own  way  lay  in  an  opposite  direction.  But  when  I  had 
seen  them  settled  in  their  first-class  compartments  and  the 
accommodating  guard  had  reassured  me  by  locking  them 
in,  I  turned  with  a  sigh  of  contentment  and  fled  back  to 
Monte  Carlo.  I  had  been  absent  only  a  few  days,  but  I 
returned  to  a  dusty  and  desolate  town.  Perhaps  the 
numbers  of  gamblers  and  pleasure-seekers  had  not 
actually  diminished.  Perhaps  they  had  even  increased, 
but  a  day's  search  satisfied  me  that  the  unknown  lady  had 
gone,  and  for  me  the  town  was  empty. 

What  idiosyncrasy  drove  me  to  the  Holy  Land,  I  can- 
not say,  unless  it  was  that  after  my  exhausting  term  of 
cathedral  inspection  I  felt  a  desire  to  have  a  look  at  that 
temple  which,  except  for  the  Taj  Mahal,  has  always 
appealed  to  me  as  the  world's  most  beautiful  place  of 
worship — the  Mosque  of  Omar. 

Riding  one  day  on  a  donkey  around  the  walls  of 
Jerusalem,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  Her  standing  on  the  ram- 


PURSUING  A  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  29 

parts  above  me  by  the  gate  of  the  Needle's  Eye.  But  as 
I  looked  up,  the  sun  was  full  in  my  eyes  and  I  could 
distinguish  only  the  lashing  of  her  skirts  in  the  wind,  and 
a  halo-like  aura  of  gold  about  her  head,  which  was 
uncovered.  At  that  distance  her  face  was  a  featureless 
oval.  Until  night  came  with  its  howling  of  a  thousand 
dogs  I  visited  the  places  to  which  guides  most  frequently 
conduct  their  charges.  But  in  the  Temple  of  The 
Sepulchre,  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,  at  the  Jews'  Wailing 
Place  and  among  the  vaulted  bazaars,  there  was  only 
failure  for  my  quest.  For  two  days  I  hunted,  and  while 
I  hunted  she  must  have  gone  down  to  Jaffa  or  departed 
for  the  overland  trip  to  Syria. 


CHAPTER  III 

I   EMBARK   ON   A   FOOI/S   ERRAND 

I    WAS  sitting  on  the  terrace  at  Shepheard's  Hotel  on 
the  evening  of  my  arrival  there.     I  was  finding  life 
flat,  as  one  must  who  can  discover  no  fascination 
in  Cairo's  appeal  to  the  eyes,  nostrils  and  ears.     Before 
me  was  the  olla-podrida  of  touring  fashion  and  fellaheen 
squalor;    the  smell  of  camels  and  attar  of  roses;    the 
polyglot  chatter  of  European  pleasure-seekers  and  the 
tom-toms  of  Arab  pilgrims. 

Then  once  more  I  saw  her.  But  still  I  did  not  see  her 
face.  I  suppose  there  were  other  persons  with  her.  I 
did  not  notice.  I  did  notice  the  salient  thing.  She  was 
boarding  a  motor  'bus,  presumably  for  the  Alexandria 
train,  and  was  followed  by  the  usual  Cairene  retinue  of 
tarbooshed  porters  and  luggage-bearers. 

My  glimpse  of  her  was  again  only  in  exit.  My  baggage 
had  just  been  unpacked,  and  I  also  could  not  catch  the 
Alexandria  train.  I  had  been  foolish  enough  to  announce 

30 


I  EMBABK  OX  A  FOOL'S  EREAND  31 

my  coming  by  postcard  from  Jerusalem  to  an  acquain- 
tance at  the  Turf  Club  and  had  found  awaiting  me  at 
Shepheard's  on  my  arrival  a  note  informing  me  that 
George  Clann,  a  friend  of  past  days,  had  invited  a  few 
army  officers  and  native  men  for  dinner  that  evening  to 
meet  me.  The  note  added  that  no  excuse  would  be 
accepted.  I  had  called  up  the  club  and  signified  my 
acceptance.  That  was  before  I  had  seen  the  departing 
goddess,  but  I  was  due  in  the  Sharia  el  Magrabi  an  hour 
hence  and  so  was  once  again  completely  anchored. 

Had  I  seen  her  in  entrance  instead  of  in  exit  only,  I 
should  perhaps  have  remained  in  Egypt  and  fanned  into 
rebirth  a  languid  interest  in  sarcophagi  and  cartouches 
and  camel-riding  and  scrambling  up  the  comfortless  slants 
of  pyramids. 

As  it  was  I  began  to  subscribe  to  the  Oriental  idea  of 
an  inevitable  destiny.  I  admitted  to  myself  that  it  was 
written  that  for  me  this  lady  was  to  remain  as  unseen  as 
though  she  belonged  to  the  latticed  and  veiled  seclusion 
of  some  pasha's  harem.  I  told  myself  that  had  my  first 
glimpse  been  a  full  one  I  should  have  gone  on  my  way 
with  prompt  forgetfulness  and  that  a  curiosity  so  strange 
and  fantastic  must  influence  me  no  further. 

I  sought  out  an  empty  place  on  the  terrace  where 
unintentionally  enough  I  overheard  an  earnest  conver- 
sation between  a  fair-haired  and  enthusiastic  young  Eng- 


32  THE  POSTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

lishman  and  a  grizzled  fellow  in  middle  life.  They  were 
talking  business  in  one  of  the  writing-rooms  which  give 
out  through  open  windows  upon  the  terrace,  and  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  younger  gave  a  carrying  quality  to  his 
voice. 

He  was,  it  appeared  from  his  solicitude,  seeking  a  billet 
which  it  lay  in  the  power  of  his  elder  vis-a-vis  to  bestow. 
From  the  discussion  which  neither  of  them  treated  as  con- 
fidential I  learned  that  there  is  somewhere  in  the  Pacific 
Ocean  a  perfectly  useless  island  from  which  certain 
ethnological  data  and  exhibits  might  be  obtained.  It 
further  appeared  that  the  British  Museum  was  deficient 
in  these  particular  curios  and  that  the  glass  cases  were 
yearning  to  be  filled.  The  youth  had  been  employed  in 
Soudanese  excavations  and  research.  Now  that  work 
had  ended  and  with  it  the  pay,  the  necessity  for  other 
work  and  pay  had  not  ended. 

"  The  billet  down  there,"  suggested  the  elder  man, 
"  will  be  no  end  beastly,  I  dare  say.  A  tramp  steamer 
sails  from  Port  Said  in  three  days  for  Singapore,  San- 
dakan  and  the  South  Seas.  The  pay  will  be  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  for  the  job.  The  fare  will  probably  be 
maggoty  biscuits — still,  if  you  feel  game  to  have  a  dash 

at  it "  The  speaker  finished  with  a  shrug  which 

seemed  to  add,  "  It's  never  difficult  to  find  a  fool." 

But  the  young  man  laughed  with  a  whole-hearted 


I  EMBARK  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND          33 

enthusiasm,  that  entirely  missed  the  under  note  of  con- 
tempt in  the  manner  of  his  benefactor.  "  Well,  rather," 
he  declared.  "  And  I  say,  you  know,  its  jolly  good  of 
you,  sir." 

Later  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  young  Briton 
in  the  American  bar  where  over  Scotch  and  soda  we  dis- 
cussed the  project,  to  the  end  that  I  nominated  and 
elected  myself  an  assistant  forager  for  the  British 
Museum,  serving  at  my  own  expense.  There  was  some- 
thing likeable  about  my  new  and  naive  acquaintance,  who 
was  so  eager  to  shoulder  his  futile  way  across  a  third  of 
the  globe's  circumference  in  search  of  crudely  inscribed 
rocks  and  axe-heads  and  decaying  skulls.  My  own 
experience  in  life  had  been  even  more  futile.  I  had 
learned  to  speak  five  languages  and  had  completely  failed 
of  gaining  a  foothold  in  five  useful  professions:  Art, 
Law,  Literature,  Music  and  Contentment.  Possibly  the 
appeasement  of  my  Salatheal  hunger,  the  curing  of  the 
curse,  did  not  after  all  lie  along  the  routes  of  Cunarders 
and  Pullmans.  Maybe  I  was  still  nibbling  at  travel  as 
the  schoolgirl  nibbles  at  chocolates.  Perhaps  his  method 
of  taking  the  long  and  empty  trail  was  the  heroic  medicine 
my  itching  feet  required.  At  all  events,  I  sententiously 
quoted  to  myself,  "  I  think  It  will  kill  me  or  cure,  and 
I  think  I  will  go  there  and  see." 

When  I  informed  young  Mansfield,  for  that  proved  to 


34  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

be  his  name,  that  I  meant  to  be  his  traveling  companion, 
his  almost  childlike  face  took  on  an  incredulous  expres- 
sion. He  was  a  great  two-hundred-pound  chap  whose 
physique  should  logically  have  been  the  asset  of  a  pirate 
or  a  pugilist,  but  the  visage  which  surmounted  it  had  a 
rosy  pinkness  and  his  blue  eyes  wore  the  guileless  charity 
of  essential  innocence.  With  his  physical  power  went  a 
long-suffering  good  nature,  and  as  he  talked  of  the  widely 
scattered  places  he  had  seen  and  the  things  which  should 
have  made  him  wise  in  his  generation  it  seemed  to  me 
that  his  soul  must  have  worn  a  macintosh,  from  which  the 
showers  of  experience  had  been  shed  off  without  leav- 
ing a  mark.  I  have  seen  mastiffs  with  eyes  full  of  wist- 
fulness  because  Nature  has  denied  their  affectionate  tem- 
peraments the  gentle  lives  of  lap  dogs.  Mansfield  struck 
me  the  same  way.  Why  a  man,  by  his  spare  and  simple 
standards  as  rich  as  Croesus,  should  care  to  ship  with  him 
on  a  voyage  promising  maggoty  biscuits,  was  quite 
beyond  his  mental  process.  He  confessed,  in  all  frank- 
ness, that  he  did  it  merely  for  the  money — the  pitiful 
hundred  and  fifty.  There  was  a  girl  back  in  England, 
probably  as  devoid  of  surprises  and  complications  of 
character  as  a  lane-side  primrose.  I  pictured  her  to 
myself  as  a  creature  of  pink  and  shallow  prettiness.  The 
day  to  which  his  ambition  strained  as  the  ultimate  goal 
was  the  day  when  he  could  become  a  curator  in  the  Brit- 


35 

ish  Museum  and  transplant  her  to  decent  London  lodg- 
ings. He  longed  to  placard  and  arrange  scarabs  in  a 
plate-glass  case  and  to  classify  Chimbote  pottery  and  on 
bank  holidays  to  push  a  go-cart  in  the  park. 

I  was  glad,  however,  when  I  went  over  the  rust-red 
side  of  the  Wastrel  that  Mansfield  went  with  me.  We 
had  known  that  we  were  shipping  on  a  mean  vessel,  and 
one  shouldered  out  of  more  orderly  chartings,  because  of 
her  unworthiness.  Liners  did  not  ply  the  tepid  waters 
for  which  we  were  bound :  waters  ridden  by  no  commerce 
save  the  peddling  of  copra  and  pearl  shell  and  beche-de- 
mer.  Yet  even  the  warning  had  not  prepared  me  for 
what  I  found,  as  I  first  stepped  upon  her  unclean  decks 
and  had  my  initial  view  of  her  more  unclean  crew. 
Perhaps  there  are  other  corroded  hulks  shambling  here 
and  there  among  the  less  frequented  ports  of  the  seven 
seas  as  uninviting  in  appearance  and  as  villainously 
manned  as  was  the  Wastrel,  but  on  this  point  I  stand 
unconvinced.  A  glance  told  us  that  her  sea-worthiness 
was  questionable  and  that  her  over-burdening  cargo 
pressed  her  Plimsoll  mark  close  to  the  water  line.  We 
were  to  learn  by  degrees  that  her  timbers  were  rotten, 
her  plates  rust-eaten  and  her  engines  junk.  Her  officers 
were  outcasts  from  respectable  seafaring,  none  too  cordial 
in  their  relations  with  admiralty  courts.  They  had  fallen 
back  on  the  hazardous  command  of  such  a  vessel  as  this 


36  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

not  from  choice,  but  necessity,  precisely  as  other  types  of 
unemployed  and  hopeless  men  fall  back  on  vagrancy  and 
crime.  Her  crew  was  picked  from  the  dregs  of  scattered 
ports.  They  were  Lascars,  Kanakas,  Chinese  and  non- 
descripts from  here  and  there ;  haled  forth  and  signed 
from  dives  where  human  garbage  trickles  down  to  the  sea. 
At  first  they  interested  me  as  new  and  roughened  types 
of  men,  yet  as  I  say,  I  was  more  than  grateful  for  the 
shoulder  touch  of  at  least  one  being  of  my  own  sort. 
From  our  arrival,  none  of  them  except  the  captain  and 
officers  took  the  slightest  pains  to  conceal  that  they 
regarded  us  as  unwelcome  interlopers  and  even  the 
courtesy  of  the  after-guard  was  shortlived  enough.  In 
that  desert  of  taciturnity  Mansfield  babbled  like  a  brook 
and  overflowed  with  young  sentimentality. 

The  first  leg  of  our  journey  ended  at  Borneo,  leaving 
us  as  unacquainted  with  officers  and  seamen,  save  in  the 
surface  details  of  personal  appearance,  as  we  had  been 
at  Port  Said.  Now  we  were  dropping  Sandakan  harbor 
over  the  stern.  Already  the  sprawling,  hillside  town, 
framed  in  its  mangrove  swamps,  was  lost  around  the  but- 
tress of  the  harbor's  sentinel  rock.  Ramparts  of  sand- 
stone were  burning  with  a  ruddy  glow  in  the  sunset. 

A  sense  of  isolation  settled  on  us.  As  we  had  nosed 
our  way  outward  Mansfield  had  been  leaning  silently  on 
the  after  rail.  His  eyes  had  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the 


I  EMBARK  OX  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND          37 

green  gardens  and  white  walks  of  the  British  Consulate 
which  sits  upon  its  hill.  Now  we  had  seen  the  last  of  that 
and  of  the  bay's  flotilla  of  matting-sailed  junks.  Off  the 
port  bow  were  only  beetling  sandstone  and  the  countless 
gulls,  flashing  white  as  they  tilted  the  snowy  linings  of 
their  wings  into  the  sun.  He  talked  for  a  time,  in  low 
tones  of  the  girl  in  Sussex  as  men  will  talk  when  they  are 
homesick,  and  then  he  rather  shamefacedly  produced  from 
somewhere  and  opened  at  random  a  much  battered  blank- 
book,  written  in  a  woman's  hand. 

"  I  dare  say,"  he  hesitantly  told  me,  "  I  have  no  moral 
right  to  read  this.  It's  quite  personal,  yet  it's  unsigned. 
Invasion  of  privacy  can't  apply  to  anonymous  persons, 
you  know."  He  paused  for  a  minute  and  indolently 
watched  the  screaming  hordes  of  Sandakan  birds  as  if 
awaiting  my  agreement,  but  I  said  nothing. 

"  You  see,"  he  continued,  "  I've  been  living  lately  in  a 
cheap  pension  at  Cairo  and,  before  that,  in  beastly  Soudan 
inns,  so  when  I  drew  a  bit  in  advance  I  resolved  to  treat 
myself  to  a  day  or  two  at  Shepheards.  You  remember 
how  full  the  house  was?  They  had  to  give  me  a  small 
room  on  the  roof.  It  was  really  a  sort  of  servant's  room 
in  less  crowded  times,  I  fancy.  A  beggar  of  an  Arab 
used  to  pray  on  his  rug  in  front  of  my  door.  .  .  . 
In  rummaging  about  I  found  this."  He  held  up  the 
blank-book.  "  I  looked  for  an  address,  meaning  to  post 


33  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

it  to  its  owner  but  there  was  no  address  and  only  given 
names — there's  not  a  surname  between  these  covers. 
Some  servant  must  have  found  it  in  a  vacated  room  and 
later  left  it  in  the  one  to  which  I  had  fallen  heir.  Seems 
to  have  been  some  girl's  desultory  but  intimate  diary. 
Just  an  entry  now  and  then,  with  evidently  long  gaps 
between.  You  see  the  first  writing  is  immature,  almost 
childish — and  the  last  is  dated  at  Cairo." 

I  nodded  my  head,  but  said  nothing.  He  appeared 
deeply  interested  but  his  simple  punctilio  required  the 
reinforcement  of  my  approval,  before  he  could  quite 
clear  the  skirts  of  his  conscience  in  the  matter  of  having 
sampled  its  contents. 

"  You  see,"  he  half -apologized,  "  my  first  glance  was 
disinterested,  I  was  merely  seeking  to  identify  ownership. 
But  from  just  a  few  lines,  read  in  that  fashion,  I  saw  that 
it  was — "  his  voice  became  serious,  almost  awed — 
"  well  that  it  was  rather  wonderful.  Some  girl  has  been 
putting  her  heart  into  words  here — "  he  tapped  the  blank- 
book — "  and  she's  written  a  genuine  human  document." 
Again  he  paused,  drumming  on  the  rail  with  the  fingers  of 
one  hand. 

"  From  a  half-dozen  bits  of  Chimbote  pottery,"  he 
reflected,  "  I  can  read  a  great  deal  of  the  habits  and  life 
of  the  Incas.  I  can  restore  an  extinct  mammal  from 
some  fragments  of  skeleton,  but  I  find  it  jolly  difficult  to 


I  EMBARK  ON  A  FOOL'S  ERRAND          39 

understand  anything  about  a  woman.  If  a  fellow  means 
to  marry  he  ought  to  try  to  understand.  That's  why  I'd 
like  to  have  a  dip  into  this.  Do  you  think  I  might  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  I  countered,  smiling,  "  that  you 
would  have  the  right  to  read  somebody's  unsigned  love- 
letters  ? "  A  certain  magazine  editor  had  once  wither- 
ingly  opined  that  I  would  never  succeed  in  literature  until 
I  acquired  some  insight  into  the  feminine  riddle.  But 
he  had  not  pointed  me  to  diaries.  He  had  bluntly 
advised  me  to  fall  in  love  with  a  few  variant  types. 

Until  a  man  had  found  blond  or  dark  hairs  on  his 
coat  shoulder,  said  the  editor,  he  could  not  hope  to  write 
about  heartbeats.  If  he  had  found  various  kinds,  and 
that  often,  he  could  write  better. 

Young  Mansfield  was  giving  my  question  a  graver  and 
more  literal  consideration  than  it  merited. 

"  I  rather  think,"  he  said  seriously,  "  that  one  might 
read  such  letters.  Unless  the  offense  is  against  some 
definite  person  there  is  no  offense  at  all." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  I  admitted,  with  a  listless 
avoidance  of  argument,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  had 
opened  the  book  at  random  and  was  reading  aloud. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOME  PASSAGES  FROM  A  DIARY 

MANSFIELD  was  right.     The  pages  of  this  diary 
struck  the  essentially  human  note  of  frank  self- 
avowal.      They    were    as    fragrant    as    May 
orchards,  their  sweetness  of  personality  made  one  think 
of  brave  young  dreams  among  dewy  blossoms.     But  I 
confessed  to  him  the  feeling  that  we  were  trespassers  into 
these  secrets,  and  after  that  he  either  laid  the  book  by  alto- 
gether or  read  it  only  when  alone. 

The  Wastrel  was  cruising  at  her  cripple's  pace  south- 
east by  east,  through  those  hot  waters  which  lie  directly 
above  the  equator.  After  some  days  we  sloped  across 
the  line,  but  still  clung  to  the  hideous  swelter  of  the  next 
meridian.  Our  course  lay  among  groups  of  lush  islands 
which  simmered  in  steam  and  fever,  and  the  merciless, 
overhead  sun  beat  upon  us,  as  if  focused  through  a 
burning  glass  until  the  pitch  oozed  from  the  deck  cracks, 
and  the  sweat  from  our  pores,  and  the  self-control  from 

40 


41 

our  curdled  tempers.  Faces  that  had  been  sullen  at 
Sandakan  grew  malevolent  and  menacing  at  150  degrees, 
east,  where,  if  I  remember  rightly,  we  crossed  the  equator. 

The  scowls  of  the  men  dwelt  hatefully  upon  Captain 
Coulter  as  he  paced  the  bridge.  From  scraps  of  infor- 
mation picked  up  here  and  there  in  fo'castle  disparage- 
ment, I  pieced  together  a  lurid  abstract  of  his  history.  I 
knew  how  wild  and  unsavory  were  the  reputations  of 
many  of  the  men  of  the  eastern  beaches.  I  had  listened 
to  tales  of  lanai  and  bund,  but  even  in  such  company 
our  skipper  stood  out  as  uniquely  wicked. 

The  sheer  and  hypnotic  force  of  his  masterful  will  lay 
over  and  silenced  the  ship.  From  the  first,  he  dominated. 
But  if  he  had  dominated  at  the  latitude  of  120  he  domi- 
neered at  150,  and  to'this  domineering  he  brought  all  those 
extremes  of  tyranny  which  lie  at  the  hand  of  a  ship's 
captain  on  the  high  seas.  At  times  the  sheer,  undiluted 
brutality  of  this  control  compelled  my  unwilling  admira- 
tion. Every  pair  of  eyes  that  met  his  from  the  fo'castle, 
were  eyes  of  smoldering  hatred  and  fear,  and  though  he 
assumed  scornful  unconsciousness  of  this  attitude,  he 
knew  that  his  security  was  no  greater  than  that  of  the 
lion-tamer,  whose  beasts  have  begun  to  go  bad.  He  must 
appear  to  invite  attack,  and  upon  its  first  intimation  of 
outbreak,  he  must  punish,  and  punish  memorably. 

Captain  Coulter  was  little  above  the  average  in  physical 


42 

pattern  and  he  walked  with  a  slight  defect  of  gait,  throw- 
ing one  foot  out  with  an  emphatic  stamp.  His  face  was 
always  clean-shaven,  and  it  might  have  served  a  sculptor 
for  a  type  of  the  uncompromising  Puritan,  so  hidden 
were  its  brutalities  and  so  strong  its  note  of  implacable 
resoluteness. 

Over  a  high  and  rather  protrusive  forehead,  long  hair 
of  iron  gray  was  always  swept  back.  Bushy  and  aggres- 
sive brows  shaded  eyes  singularly  piercing  and  of  the 
same  depth  and  coldness  as  polar  ice.  His  nose  was 
large  and  straight,  and  his  lips  set  tight  and  unyielding 
like  the  jaws  of  a  steel  trap.  The  chin  was  square  and 
close-shaven.  Our  captain  was  a  silent  man,  yet  in  his 
own  fashion  bitterly  passionate.  Heffernan,  the  first 
mate,  was  a  tawdry  courtier,  who  studiously  considered 
his  chief  in  every  matter,  and  maintained  his  position  of 
concord  by  ludicrous  care  to  risk  no  disagreement.  In 
the  stuffy  cabin  where  three  times  a  day  we  sweltered 
over  bad  food  Mansfield  and  I  studied  the  attitudes  of  the 
officers. 

Coulter  grimly  amused  himself  over  his  eating  by  mak- 
ing absurd  statements  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  seeing 
his  next  in  command,  fall  abjectly  into  agreement.  The 
second  mate,  however,  was  impenetrably  silent.  He  was 
without  fear,  but  a  life  which  had  evidently  brought  him 
down  a  steep  declivity  from  a  lost  respectability,  had 


SOME  PASSAGES  FROM  A  DIAEY  43 

taught  him  consideration  for  odds.  If  he  did  not  con- 
tradict the  dogmatic  utterances  of  his  chief  in  table 
conversation,  he  at  least  refused  to  agree. 

Mansfield  and  I  were  convinced  that  if  this  prema- 
turely gray  fellow  with  the  dissipated  face,  cut  in  a 
patrician  mould,  could  ever  be  brought  to  the  point  of 
personal  narrative,  he  would  have  a  stirring  story  to  tell. 
We  also  knew  that  he  would  never  tell  it. 

Once  before  the  feud  between  after-watch  and  fo'castle 
drove  the  officers  into  an  alliance  of  self-defense.  A 
grave  clash  between  the  captain  and  the  second  mate 
seemed  inevitable.  It  was  a  night  of  intolerable  heat,  and 
a  sky  spangled  with  stars  hung  over  us  low  and  smother- 
ing. Lawrence,  the  second  mate,  was  off  watch,  and 
joined  us,  carrying  a  violin.  Then  under  the  weird 
depression  and  melancholy  lassitude  which  burdened  us 
all,  he  began  to  improvise.  Mansfield  and  I  listened, 
spellbound.  Under  his  touch  the  catgut  gave  off  such 
strains  as  could  come  only  from  the  sheer  genius  of  a 
gifted  musician  who  had  suffered  miserably.  It  was 
almost  as  if  he  were  giving  without  words  the  story  which 
his  lips  would  never  tell,  and  into  the  improvised  music 
crept  infinite  pathos  and  somber  tragedy.  No  one  could 
have  listened  unmoved,  but  the  manner  in  which  Captain 
Coulter  was  affected  was  startling. 

He  came  over  with  an  advent  like  that  of  a  maniac. 


44  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

The  lame  foot  was  pounding  the  deck  with  the  stressful 
stamp  that  was  always  his  indication  of  rage.  He  halted 
before  us  with  fists  clenched  and  his  eyes  glittering. 
Upon  Lawrence  he  vented  an  outpouring  of  blasphemous 
and  unquotable  wrath. 

"Throw  that  damned  fiddle  overboard,"  was  the  com- 
mand with  which  he  capped  his  fierce  tirade.  "  Don't  let 
me  hear  its  hell-tortured  screeching  on  my  ship  again." 

For  a  moment  Lawrence  stood  silent  and  cold  in  a 
petrifaction  of  anger.  Then  he  laid  the  instrument  care- 
fully on  a  hatch  and  stepped  forward.  Obviously  it  was 
in  his  mind  at  that  moment  to  kill  the  captain,  but  after  a 
pause  he  thought  better  of  it.  The  odds  against  him 
were  too  heavy. 

"I'll  stow  the  violin  in  my  box,  sir,"  he  said  with  a 
voice  so  quiet  it  was  almost  gentle,  "  but  so  help  me  God, 
if  ever  we  meet  after  this  voyage  is  ended,  I  mean  to  kill 
you."  Coulter  laughed  disdainfully  and  strode  away,  but 
for  ten  minutes  Lawrence  sat  silent,  his  breath  coming 
in  deep  gasps  while  he  wrestled  with  the  murder  mad- 
ness. We  learned  later  that  the  captain  was  one  of  those 
persons  whom  music  frenzies,  and  from  that  time  on  we 
did  not  even  permit  ourselves  the  consolation  of  whistling 
a  favorite  air. 

Of  all  the  restless  men  in  the  fo'castle,  Coulter  most 
keenly  watched  one  John  Hoak,  a  gigantic  seaman  from 


SOME  PASSAGES  FROM  A  DIARY  45 

Liverpool,  in  whom  he  instinctively  recognized  a  potential 
ringleader  of  mutiny.  One  evening  Hoak  vindicated  this 
appraisement  by  defiantly  and  loudly  playing  a  music-hall 
tune  on  an  accordion.  A  strain  of  it  reached  the  bridge 
and  Coulter,  who  was  on  watch,  ordered  the  offender  for- 
ward. After  a  violent  and  profane  denunciation,  under 
which  the  giant  writhed  in  silent  fury,  Coulter  lashed  out 
to  the  sailor's  mouth  with  his  clenched  fist  and  sent  him 
sprawling  to  the  deck.  But  lest  this  conduct  should 
appear  too  irresolute,  he  added  the  punishment  of 
twenty-four  hours  in  irons.  A  fellow  seaman  plucked  up 
the  heroism  to  demand  that  the  incident  be  entered  on  the 
log  for  admiralty  investigation  and  Coulter's  only  reply 
was  to  send  the  insurgent  into  the  inferno  of  the  stoke 
hold  for  an  extra  shift  at  the  shovels.  In  the  stokehold 
the  thermometer  registered  130  degrees  Fahrenheit,  and 
the  white  and  brown  torsos  that  strained  under  the 
trembling  dials  were  black  with  the  sooty  sweat  of  their 
effort  and  red  with  the  pitiless  glare  from  the  grates. 

From  these  beginnings  the  cloud  on  the  horizon  of  our 
affairs  steadily  gathered  and  blackened  until  an  ominous 
pall  of  impending  mutiny  overhung  us.  Only  an  occa- 
sional coral  reef  or  atoll  now  broke  the  monotony  of  a 
dead  and  oily  sea.  No  shred  of  cloud  relieved 
the  emptiness  of  a  devitalized  sky.  Mansfield  and 
I  went  about  in  canvas  shoes  and  pajamas.  The 


46  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

ship  was  more  disheveled  than  we,  and  its  dis- 
cipline more  slovenly  than  its  dress.  The  churlish 
silence  of  the  fo'castle  was  met  by  the  braggart 
autocracy  of  the  officers.  Conditions  grew  tenser  and 
thicker  with  each  day,  yet  no  specific  rupture  came  to  fire 
the  waiting  explosion.  Slowly  it  brewed  and  gathered 
menace,  while  the  air  hung  pulseless  and  heavy  under  its 
shadow.  Mansfield  and  I  knew  it  needed  only  a  lightning 
flash  to  loose  all  the  artillery  of  the  thunders  and  set  them 
about  their  hell's  fury.  By  tacit  consent  we  did  not  often 
talk  of  it,  but  we  remained  close  together  and  placed  our 
revolvers,  belts  and  sheath-knives  where  they  could  be 
readily  caught  up.  Under  the  silent  horror  of  foreboding 
our  nerves  became  raw  and  our  tempers,  like  those  of  the 
others,  short  and  raspy.  On  one  sultry  afternoon  when 
the  trade  wind  was  dead,  I  came  upon  Mansfield  sprawl- 
ing in  the  shadow  of  a  life-boat,  diligently  reading  entries 
from  the  unknown  girl's  diary,  touching  the  incidents  of 
her  sheltered  and  untroubled  life.  He  glanced  up  shame- 
facedly, then  began  in  exculpation: 

"  See  here,  you  know  you're  quite  wrong  about  the 
guiltiness  of  reading  this.  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  mind. 
She's  not  that  sort.  Here  we  are  menaced  by  the  inferno 
of  a  mutiny.  We  are  no  better  than  mice  waiting  the 
pleasure  of  a  cat,  which  means  to  crush  them.  .  .  .  The 


SOME  PASSAGES  FROM  A  DIARY  47 

atmosphere  will  drive  us  mad.  This  book  is  like  a  breeze 
off  the  heather.  ...  I  tell  you  it  helps." 

In  abnormal  times  men  entertain  abnormal  ideas  and 
warped  notions.  I  sat  cross-legged  on  the  deck  beside 
him  and  stuffed  tobacco  into  my  pipe.  I  said  nothing. 

"  It's  all  getting  on  my  nerves.  I'm  losing  my  grip !  " 
he  admitted.  "  Last  night  I  dreamed  of  a  nasty  row  and 
all  day  a  bit  of  rhyme  has  been  running  through  my 
brain."  He  paused  a  moment,  then  quoted : 

'  'Twas  a  cutlass  swipe  or  an  ounce  of  lead 
Or  a  yawning  hole  in  a  battered  head, 
And  the  scuppers  glut  with  a  rotting  red. 

1 '  And  there  they  lay  while  the  soggy  skies 
Dreened  all  day  long  in  upstaring  eyes, 
At  murk  sunset  and  at  foul  sunrise.'  " 

He  broke  off  and  laughed  at  himself  unsteadily. 

"  Get  your  mind  off  it,"  I  commanded  shortly.  "  Fetch 
out  the  blank-book.  Let's  read  about  her  debut  party." 

But  the  passage  at  which  the  book  fell  open  dealt  with 
a  time  prior  to  debuts.  At  the  head  of  the  page  was 
pasted  a  newspaper  clipping  hinting  at  personalities  but 
giving  no  names. 

"  One  of  the  most  beautiful  and  popular  members  of 
the  younger  set  in  the  summer  colony  "  had  been  capsized 
while  sailing  in  the  harbor.  The  youth  who  accompanied 
her  had  been  seized  with  cramps  and  she  had  kept  not 


48  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

only  herself  but  her  helpless  escort  above  water  until  the 
tardy  arrival  of  help.  Beneath,  in  her  own  hand,  was 
scrawled : 

"  Did  they  expect  me  to  drown  him  ?  I  had  to  stand 
by,  of  course.  What  else  could  a  fellow  do?  But  I 
spoiled  a  dress  I  look  nice  in.  I'm  sorry  for  that." 

Appended  to  this  was  a  postscript  so  badly  written  that 
it  was  hard  to  decipher.  I  could  guess  that  her  cheeks 
had  colored  as  she  wrote  it. 

"  Maybe  after  all,  I  am  a  grandstander.  I  did  get 
awfully  tired — and  I  pretended  that  he  was  looking  on, 
and  was  swimming  out  to  help  me." 

"  By  Jove  "  snorted  Mansfield,  "  she's  a  ripping  good 
sort.  I  wonder  who  she  pretended  was  looking  on." 

"  Turn  back,"  I  suggested.    "  It  may  tell." 

But  it  was  only  after  some  searching  that  we  found 
him  duly  catalogued,  and  even  then  she  gave  him  no  name. 
Yet  in  trailing  him  through  the  pages,  we  came  to  know 
her  quite  well,  and  to  render  sincere  allegiance.  She  was 
not  at  all  conventional.  She  was  one  of  those  rare  dis- 
coveries upon  which  the  prospector  in  life  comes  only 
when  he  strikes  an  El  Dorado.  She  dared  to  think  her 
own  thoughts  and  did  not  grow  into  the  stereotyped 
mold  of  imitation.  We  felt  from  the  clean,  instinctive 
courage  of  her  tone  and  view-point  that  if  ill  chance 
had  marooned  her  with  us  on  this  imperiled  ship,  she 


49 


would  bear  herself  more  gallantly  than  we  could  hope 
to  do,  and  that  she  would  tread  these  filthy  decks  with 
no  spots  on  the  whiteness  of  her  skirts. 

In  her  early  writings  she  had  shown  for  something  of 
a  tomboy  and  there  were  hints  of  elderly  exhortation  to 
tread  more  primly  the  paths  which  were  deemed 
maidenly.  Yet  from  these  tattered  scraps  of  life  and 
outlook,  we  could  piece  together  some  concept  of  her  soul 
fabric.  This  girl  was  woven  of  pure  silk,  but  not  of 
flimsy  silk;  there  were  strength  and  softness — resolute- 
ness and  tenderness — a  warp  and  woof  for  the  loom  of 
noble  things — and  charm.  Often  I  felt  as  though  I  were 
invading  a  temple  in  which  I  had  no  place  as  communi- 
cant, and  into  whose  fanes  and  outer  areas  I  should  wish 
to  come  reverently,  with  the  shoes  of  my  grosser  soul  in 
my  hands.  One  night  she  had  been  sitting  in  the  moon- 
light on  the  beach,  and  the  sea  had  talked  to  her.  What 
she  wrote  that  night  was  pure  poetry.  I  shall  not  try  to 
reproduce  it  from  my  faulty  memory.  My  heavy  mascu- 
line hand  would  mar  its  gossamar  beauty.  One  might  as 
well  undertake  to  restore  the  iridescent  subtleties  of  a 
broken  bubble.  On  this  occasion  she  was  thinking  of  the 
mysterious  man  she  had  so  quaintly  idealized.  Had  the 
lucky  beggar,  whoever  he  was,  read  those  lines  he  must 
have  felt  that,  in  the  lists  of  life,  there  rested  on  him  the 
sacred  obligation  to  bear  a  spotless  shield  and  a  true  lance. 


60  THE  POBTAL  OF  DREAMS 

She  transcribed  as  erne  to  whom  the  magic  and  delicate 
nouances  of  life  are  revealed.  Besides  these  passages  there 
were  others  sparkling  with  the  merriment  of  spontane- 
ous humor.  Our  writer  was  no  Lady  Dolorosa.  She  was 
as  many-sided  and  many-hued  as  the  diamond  whose 
facets  break  light  into  color.  She  frankly  admitted  to 
these  pages,  intended  only  for  herself,  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful, though  she  wished  that  her  eyes  were  blue  instead 
of  gray-brown,  and  that  her  type  were  different.  Evi- 
dently she  had  cut  her  teeth  on  compliment  and  fed  from 
childhood  on  that  type  of  admiration  which  beauty 
exacts.  She  seemed  to  be  a  little  hungry  for  tributes  of 
a  different  and  deeper  sort.  In  her  society  days,  as  in  the 
more  youthful  period,  we  found  frequent  references  to 
the  unnamed  man  who  still  held  his  undeserved  and  para- 
mount place  as  an  idealized  personality ;  a  human  touch- 
stone by  which  she  tested  the  intrinsicness  of  other  men — 
always  to  the  detriment  of  those  on  trial. 


CHAPTER  V 

PREMONITIONS  BECOME  REALITIES 

AT  last,  running  back  to  the  start,  we  tracked  him 
down  and  with  his  discovery  came  disappoint- 
ment. I  had  realized  that  she  had  been  dressing 
a  mere  lay-figure  in  garments  of  idealized  manhood  and 
endowing  an  unknown  with  a  panoply  of  the  chivalric 
to  which  he  could  probably  lay  no  rightful  claim.  Still  it 
was  disconcerting  to  realize  that  he  had,  in  the  flesh,  con- 
tributed absolutely  nothing  to  the  picture.  She  had 
simply  devised  from  the  whole  cloth  of  imagination  a  col- 
laborative sum  of  Galahad  the  Pure  and  Richard  the  Lion- 
Hearted.  She  had  seen  him  only  once  in  later  years — 
from  the  sidelines  of  a  Yale-Harvard  football  game.  He 
was  playing  with  the  crimson  and  she  was  at  the  impres- 
sionable age.  There  was  the  whole  and  meager  founda- 
tion for  his  apotheosis.  She  did  not  state  the  year,  but 
she  gave  the  score,  and  by  that  I  identified  the  occasion. 
"  I  devoutly  pray,"  I  confided  to  young  Mansfield, 

51 


52  THE  POSTAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  that  she  never  meets  him.  She  has  fed  herself  on 
dreams.  I  hope  she  doesn't  wake  up." 

Mansfield  promptly  took  up  the  unknown  hero's 
defense.  He  invariably  held  a  brief  for  the  idealist. 

"  Why  do  you  assume  that  he's  a  bounder  ?  "  he  de- 
manded almost  resentfully.  "  He  may  be  all  she  thinks." 

"  I  don't  assume  anything,"  I  retorted,  "  but  I  happened 
to  play  on  that  team  myself  and  I  am  compelled  to  admit, 
though  with  chagrin,  that  we  had  among  us  no  knights 
from  Arthur's  Round  Table.  Warriors  of  ferocity  we 
had ;  young  gentlemen  who  played  the  game  to  the  lasting 
glory  of  John  Harvard ;  but  this  letter-perfect  type  of 
chivalry,  valor  and  gentleness — well,  I'm  afraid  he  failed 
to  make  the  team." 

You  remember  the  story  of  Bruce  and  the  spider  ?  In 
his  ermine,  surrounded  by  his  stalwart  barons,  Robert 
would  probably  have  learned  no  lesson  from  the  weaving 
of  filmy  webs.  Alone  and  in  peril,  it  taught  him  how  to 
conquer.  To  us,  alone  and  in  peril,  this  diary  assumed 
an  epochal  importance  entirely  out  of  kelter  with  its 
face  value. 

Of  course,  there  were  many  topics  which  we  might 
have  discussed  to  divert  our  minds  from  morbidly  watch- 
ing the  cloud  of  impending  mutiny  spread  and  grow  inky. 
But  the  cloud  was  present  and  human,  and  the  diary  was 
present  and  human,  and  we  were  present  and  human. 


PREMONITIONS  BECOME  REALITIES        53 

Whether  or  not  we  were  creatures  of  atrophied  brains  and 
distorted  vision  is  an  academic  question.  The  fact  re- 
mains. For  us  there  was  genuine  relief  in  turning  from 
the  miasma  of  brooding  doom  which  overhung  the  Was- 
trel to  the  spiced  fragrance  of  this  self-revealed  person- 
ality. It  was  a  clean  breeze  into  our  asphyxiation.  It 
was  a  momentary  excursion  out  of  a  noisome  dungeon 
into  an  old-fashioned  garden,  where  roses  nod  and 
illusions  bloom. 

One  steaming  night  when  darkness  had  stopped  our 
reading,  the  two  of  us  were  lying  flat  on  our  backs — 
and  silent — in  the  enveloping  shadows  of  the  forward 
deck  near  the  capstan.  A  group  of  men  who  were 
off  watch  had  gathered  near  us,  seeking  the  gratefulness 
of  the  uninterrupted  breeze.  With  no  suspicion  of 
our  proximity,  they  fell  into  a  low-pitched  but  violent 
conference. 

Hoak  held  the  floor  as  spokesman,  and  his  deep  whis- 
pering voice  was  raw  with  bitterness. 

"  We  hain't  no  bloomin'  galley-slyves,"  he  growled. 
"  Blyme  me,  I  say,  let's  make  a  hend  o'  the  'ole  bloody 
mess  once  and  for  hall." 

"  How  ?  "  came  the  natural  question  from  one  of  the 
more  conservative. 

"'Ow?"  retorted  the  ringleader,  "Wat's  the  odds 
'ow  ?  Any  way  will  do.  Rush  the  cabin.  There's  a  stand 


54 

of  rifles  at  the  for'ard  bulkhead.  Kill  hoff  the  bloody 
lot  of  hofficers.  Navigate  the  bloomin'  ole  'ooker  back 
ourselves  and  report  whatever  damn  thing  we  like." 

"  How  about  these  passengers  ?  They'd  snitch,"  sug- 
gested the  same  questioner. 

"  Aw  no,"  sarcastically  assured  Hoak,  "  they  won't 
snitch.  They  won't  'ave  no  more  charnce  to  snitch  than 
Coulter  'isself — damn  5im." 

For  a  moment  I  felt  a  steaming  throb  in  my  throat. 
Then  came  a  new  sensation,  something  like  relief  that 
at  last  the  clear  outline  was  looming  through  the  fog  of 
maddening  uncertainty.  It  did  not  seem  to  matter  so 
much  what  the  certainty  was,  so  long  as  it  brought  an  end 
to  the  suspense.  There  was  some  discussion  in  hushed 
voices.  Caution  had  its  advocates  who  opposed  so  des- 
perate a  course. 

"  Think  it  hover  till  to-morrow,"  said  Hoak  at  last. 
"  But  hif  you  don't  stand  by  me  Hi'm  going  to  cut  loose 
a  boat  and  tyke  to  the  water.  To  'ell  with  the  Wastrel 
an'  her  rotter  of  a  captain." 

There  was  a  sudden  hush  followed  by  a  sort  of  low 
chorused  groan.  Around  the  superstructure  of  the  for- 
ward cabin  appeared  Captain  Coulter,  his  first  officer  and 
the  chief  engineer.  For  an  instant  they  stood  silently, 
flashing  electric  torches  into  the  terrified  faces  of  the  con- 


PREMONITIONS  BECOME  REALITIES        55 

spirators  who,  like  schoolboys  caught  denouncing  their 
teacher,  shuffled  their  feet  and  remained  speechless. 

Hoak,  alone,  took  a  step  forward.  His  face  was  work- 
ing spasmodically  in  the  bull's-eye  glare  which  exag- 
gerated the  high  lights  on  his  snarling  teeth  and  the  black 
shadows  of  his  scowl.  He  wavered  for  an  instant  be- 
tween his  personal  dread  of  Coulter,  and  the  knowledge 
that,  with  so  much  already  known,  caution  was  futile. 
While  he  hesitated  the  other  men  tacitly  grouped  them- 
selves together  at  his  back  and  stood  sullenly  eying  the 
officers.  Coulter  and  his  two  subordinates  slipped  their 
hands  into  their  pockets.  It  was  a  tense  moment  and  a 
noiseless  one.  When  the  captain  broke  silence  his  voice 
was  cool,  almost  casual. 

"  Mr.  Kirkenhead,"  he  ordered  the  chief  engineer, 
"  take  this  man  Hoak  to  the  stokehold,  and  keep  him 
there  until  we  reach  port.  Give  him  double  shift  and  if 
he  makes  a  false  move — kill  him." 

The  giant  made  a  passionate  start  forward,  and  found 
himself  looking  down  the  barrel  of  Coulter's  magazine 
pistol.  From  the  glint  of  the  raised  weapon  he  bounced 
backward  against  the  rail,  where  he  leaned  incoherently 
snarling  like  a  cornered  dog. 

"Hi  didn't  sign  as  no  blymed  stoker,"  he  growled  at 
last.  "Hi  won't  go " 

"  The  stokehold  or  hell,  it's  up  to  you."     Coulter's 


56  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

reply  came  in  an  absolute  monotony  of  voice  strangely  at 
variance  with  the  passionate  stress  of  their  labored 
breathing.  Back  of  the  tableau  gleamed  the  phospho- 
rescence of  the  placid  sea.  "  There's  thirty  seconds  to 
decide.  Mr.  Kirkenhead,  look  at  your  watch." 

For  a  seeming  eternity  there  was  waiting  and  bated 
breath.  We  could  hear  the  muffled  throb  of  the  engines, 
and  the  churning  of  the  screws. 

Then  Kirkenhead  announced,  "  Twenty  seconds,  sir." 

A  moment  more  and  Hoak  turned,  dropping  his  head  in 
utter  dejection  and  shambled  aft  toward  the  engine-room 
companionway. 

"  Mr.  Heffernan,"  came  the  captain's  staccato  orders, 
"  instruct  the  ship's  carpenter  to  scuttle  all  the  boats, 
except  the  port  and  starboard  ones  on  the  bridge.  If  we 
are  to  have  any  little  disagreements  on  board  we  will 
settle  them  among  ourselves.  No  one  will  leave  in  my 
boats  except  by  my  orders.  And  " — he  wheeled  on  the 
men — "  whenever  you  vermin  feel  inclined  for  trouble — 
start  it." 

So  that  incident  passed  and  went  to  swell  the  cumu- 
lative poison  of  festering  hatred.  We  knew  that  the  erup- 
tion had  merely  been  delayed ;  that  it  must  inevitably  come 
and  that  now  its  coming  would  be  soon.  Between  for- 
ward and  aft  war  had  been  declared.  Later  that  same 
evening  I  made  bold  to  remonstrate  with  Captain  Coulter 


PREMONITIONS  BECOME  REALITIES        57 

as  to  the  order  concerning  the  boats.  The  conversation 
took  place  on  the  bridge — and  it  was  brief. 

"  Mr.  Mansfield  and  myself,"  I  said,  "  are  passengers 
who  have  paid  full  fares  and  we  are  entitled  to  full  rights. 
We  demand  protection.  This  hulk  is  rotten  and  unsea- 
worthy.  When  you  scuttle  her  boats  you  are  throwing 
the  parachute  out  of  a  leaky  balloon." 

Coulter  looked  me  over  for  a  moment  and  replied  with 
absolute  composure. 

"  Mr.  Deprayne,  rights  are  good  things — when  you  can 
enforce  them.  Consulates  and  courts  of  admiralty  are  a 
long  way  off.  The  intervening  water  is  quite  deep.  If 
you  don't  like  the  Wastrel,  leave  it.  I'm  sorry  I  can't 
spare  you  a  boat  to  leave  in." 

Mansfield  and  myself  went  that  night  in  the  miserable 
cabin  which  we  shared  oppressed  with  the  conviction  that 
the  breaking  point  was  at  hand.  Mansfield  had  suddenly 
sloughed  off  his  boyishness  and  become  unexpectedly 
self-contained,  giving  the  impression  of  capability.  The 
prospect  of  action  had  changed  him.  Once  more  he  began 
to  quote  his  ghastly  verses,  but  now  without  shuddering, 
almost  cheerfully. 

'  'Twas  a  cutlass  swipe  or  an  ounce  of  lead, 
Or  a  yawning  hole  in  a  battered  head — 
And  the  scuppers  glut  with  a  rotting  red.5  " 


58  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Then  he  remembered  that  sometimes  men  survive 
strange  adventures,  and  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  girl  in 
Sussex  which  he  asked  me  to  deliver  in  the  event  that  I, 
and  not  he,  should  prove  such  a  survivor.  I  fastened  it 
with  a  pin  into  the  pocket  of  my  pajama  jacket.  For 
hours  after  we  had  turned  into  our  berths  each  of  us 
knew  that  the  other  was  not  sleeping.  We  heard  the  crazy 
droning  of  the  sick  engine;  the  wash  of  the  quiet  water; 
the  straining  of  the  timbers. 

We  had  not,  on  turning  in,  followed  our  usual  custom 
of  blowing  out  the  vile-smelling  oil  lamp  which  gave  our 
stateroom  its  only  illumination.  Neither  of  us  had  spoken 
of  it,  but  we  left  the  light  burning  probably  in  tacit  pre- 
sentiment that  this  was  to  be  a  night  of  some  portentous 
development,  and  one  not  to  be  spent  in  darkness.  Mans- 
field pretended  to  sleep  in  the  upper  berth,  but  after  vainly 
courting  dreams  for  an  hour,  I  slipped  out  of  mine  and 
crept  to  the  fresher  air  of  the  deck. 

When  I  returned  to  the  cabin,  still  obsessed  with  rest- 
less wakefulness,  I  found  the  diary,  and  throwing  myself 
into  my  bunk,  spent  still  another  hour  in  its  perusal.  I 
had  long  ago  laid  by  my  early  scruples  and  now  I  found 
in  its  pages  a  quality  strangely  soothing. 

Singularly  enough,  in  all  our  fragmentary  reading  be- 
tween these  limp  covers,  we  had  never  pursued  any  con- 
secutive course  and  though  certain  passages  had  been 


PEEMOXITIOXS  BECOME  REALITIES        59 

re-read  until  I  fancy  both  of  us  could  have  quoted  them 
from  memory,  there  still  remained  others  upon  which  we 
had  not  touched.     For  me  in  my  present  condition  of 
jumping  nerves  they  offered  fields  of  quieting  exploration. 
Now,  for  a  time,  I  skipped  about,  reading  here  and  there 
passages   in   no   way  connected.     There  was   a   highly 
humorous  description  of  a  certain  Frenchman  who  had 
insistently  shadowed  the  course  of  the  girl's  travels  about 
the  Continent,  inflicting  on  her  an  homage  which  it  seemed 
to  me  must  have  been  more  offensive  than  actual  rude- 
ness. She  did  not  give  his  name,  but  her  description  of  his 
appearance  and  eccentricities  was  so  droll  and  keenly 
appreciative  that  even  my  strained  lips  curled  into  a  grin 
of  enjoyment  in  the  perusal.    He  had  a  coronet  to  bestow 
and  she  likened  his  attitude  and  bearing  to  that  of  a 
crested  cock  robin.     "  To-night,"  she  wrote,  "  monsieur 
le  comte    proposed  for  my  hand — to  Mother.     I  was  in 
the  next  room  and  heard  it.    To  hear  one's  self  proposed 
to  by  proxy  is  quite  the  most  amusing  thing  that  can  hap- 
pen.    When  he  asks  me  I  shall  inform  him  that  I've 
already  given  my  heart  to  another  man — a  man  who 
hasn't  asked  me  and  may  never  ask  me.     Yes,  he  will, 
too.     He  must.     It  is  in  my  horoscope.     '  The  Heavens 
rolled  between  us  at  the  end,  we  shall  but  vow  the  faster 
for  the  stars.'     This  little  Frenchman  needs  an  heiress 
and  it  might  as  well  be  me — but  it  won't  be." 


60  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

This  was  the  first  intimation  that  the  unknown  author 
of  these  pages  was  possessed  of  wealth  as  well  as  beauty. 
In  a  vague  way  I  found  myself  regretting  the  discovery, 
although  I  could  not  say  why.  .Through  these  pages 
breathed  the  distinction  of  a  piquant  and  subtly  charming 
personality — the  fact  that  she  had  fortune  as  well,  could 
add  nothing.  But  as  I  read  the  paragraphs  devoted  to  her 
odyssey  across  the  continent  and  around  the  borders  of 
the  Mediterranean,  shadowed  always  by  this  persistent 
suitor  with  his  picayune  title,  it  struck  me  that  her  itiner- 
ary and  the  order  of  her  going  tallied  with  my  own  wan- 
derings. Yet  that  might  have  no  significance,  since  the 
routes  of  European  touring  are  distressingly  devoid  of 
variation. 

The  finger  of  destiny  had  seemed  to  concern  itself  in 
the  fashion  in  which  I  had  always  just  missed  the  lady  of 
Naples,  Monte  Carlo  and  Cairo  by  a  margin  of  seconds 
and  of  untoward  circumstance.  If  my  Fate  were  playing 
with  me  in  this  manner  it  appeared  consistent  with  its 
policy  of  tantalizing  evasiveness  that  she  and  the  writer 
might  be  the  same.  When  I  had  given  up  the  pursuit  and 
come  away  to  this  remote  quarter  of  the  globe  it  might 
still  be  decreed  that  I  should  not  escape  her  influence. 

Having  skipped  about  for  a  time  in  such  haphazard 
fashion,  the  idea  seized  me  of  going  back  to  the  beginning 
and  reading  from  the  commencement  down  to  the  present. 


PREMONITIONS  BECOME  EEALITIES        61 

In  the  first  pages  of  course  I  encountered  a  certain 
immature  crudity  of  composition  and  yet,  in  spite  of  these 
things,  there  was  much  here  of  the  charming  fascination 
of  childhood  and  the  beginnings  of  character.  If  the  later 
sections  were  as  fragrant  as  flowers,  the  earlier  passages 
were  like  the  annals  of  rosebuds  and  blossoms.  I  believe 
I  have  already  mentioned  that  in  her  childhood  she  had 
been  something  of  a  tomboy.  Her  interests  had  seemed 
to  include  many  things  which  might  quite  naturally  have 
belonged  to  the  enthusiasms  of  her  brothers.  Also  one 
read  between  the  lines  that  her  charming  sense  of  humor 
and  self-containment  had  developed  upon  overcome  ten- 
dencies toward  passionate  temper.  A  certain  passage 
had  to  do  with  her  experience  at  a  girls'  boarding-school 
when  she  was  probably  not  more  than  ten  or  eleven.  One 
of  the  teachers — an  unimpeachable  lady  of  great  learning 
and  little  human  perception,  it  would  seem — had  aroused 
her  intense  disfavor.  There  were  various  references  to 
this  feud  and  also,  even  so  early,  to  the  mysterious  person 
vaguely  alluded  to  as  He.  The  principal  of  the  school  har- 
bored a  bull  terrier  of  rather  uncertain  temper.  This 
brute,  save  for  total  fealty  to  his  mistress  and  to  the  writer 
of  the  diary,  seemed  to  hold  in  his  nature  only  distrust 
for  humanity,  and  among  those  specially  singled  out  for 
his  antipathy  was  the  aforementioned  teacher. 

One  day  the  writer  and  the  dog  had  met  the  preceptress 


62  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

on  the  avenue.  The  girl  had  set  down  with  great  glee, 
the  terror  with  which  her  enemy  had  appealed  to  her  for 
protection  against  the  onslaughts  of  the  dreaded 
Cerberus. 

"  I  told  her  that  I  would  hold  him,"  naively  related  the 
entry,  in  a  sprawling,  childish  hand,  "  and  I  did  hold  him 
until  she  was  almost  at  the  gate — but  when  I  let  him  go  I 
gave  him  a  little  sound  advice  and  he  took  it." 

There  followed  a  vivid  description,  done  into  mirth- 
provoking  humor,  of  the  somewhat  strenuous  events  of 
the  next  twenty  or  thirty  seconds.  A  section  of  black 
alpaca  skirt  remained  with  the  dog  as  a  memento. 

"  Of  course,"  commented  the  writer,  "  I  couldn't  laugh 
freely  until  I  got  back  to  the  house,  but  I  am  laughing 
now.  She  looked  so  absurd!  As  I  came  in  I  saw  Him 
ride  by  on  horseback.  I'm  afraid  he  wouldn't  approve." 

The  description  of  that  teacher  had  reminded  me 
strongly  of  my  good  Aunt  Sarah.  The  explanation  that 
the  dog  had  been  the  child's  friend  merely  because  she 
had  refused  to  be  afraid,  was  so  convincingly  put  that  I 
found  myself  in  guilty  accord  with  her  point  of  view.  In 
a  dozen  ways,  despite  this  single  instance,  she  showed  that 
her  pity  and  tenderness  were  very  genuine  and  sensitive, 
and  easily  reached  by  any  true  appeal. 

This  going  back  to  the  beginning  enabled  me  to  meet, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  first  appearance,  the  man  who  had 


PREMONITIONS  BECOME  REALITIES        63 

exercised  such  a  strong  influence  upon  her  subsequent 
life.  In  this  I  was  pleased,  for  it  showed  that  however 
imaginary  may  have  been  his  aura  of  ideality,  none  the 
less  it  had  basis  in  something  more  substantial  than  a 
glimpse  of  a  football  game.  There  was,  too,  an  element 
touching  and  almost  pathetic  in  this  earliest  self-con- 
fessed love.  He  was  when  she  first  saw  him,  eighteen  or 
nineteen,  and  she  half  as  old.  This,  disparity  in  age  had 
put  a  chasm  between  them  which  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
that  the  years  would  bridge.  He  was  just  at  that  self- 
sufficient  age,  when  he  regarded  himself  as  very  much  a 
man  and  short-skirted,  pigtailed  females  as  very  far 
beneath  his  mature  devotion.  Yet,  in  his  patronizing 
way,  he  had  been  decently  kind  and  had  jeopardized  his 
standing  as  a  man-of-the-world  by  impersonal  courtesies 
to  a  little  girl.  His  influence  had  accordingly  grown 
strong  and  permanent,  though  he  had  not  known  of  its 
existence.  She  had  enviously  watched  him  with  girls  a 
few  years  her  senior  and  had  admired  his  frank,  sports- 
manlike attitude  and  freedom  from  callow  freshness — and 
his  courage.  She  said  quite  frankly  in  the  diary  that 
she  did  not  suppose  he  had  remembered  her  at  all. 

And  so,  as  I  lay  sleepless  and  oppressed  by  presenti- 
ment of  disaster,  I  read  from  childhood  to  young  woman- 
hood her  chronicle  of  ideals  until,  under  the  soothing  of 
the  document,  I  at  last  fell  into  a  doze. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    END    OF    THE    "  WASTREL " 

WHEN  sleep  came  to  me  it  was  fitful  with  a  thou- 
sand nightmare  impossibilities,  I  saw,  in  my 
dreams,  the  face  of  the  stale  sea  and  sky  trans- 
lated into  a  broad  human  visage  paralyzed  and  smiling 
unendingly  in  that  hideous  grin  which  stamps  the  tortured 
teeth  of  the  lockjaw  victim.  Then  the  monster  of  the 
dream  broke  out  of  its  fixity  and  with  a  shriek  of  hurri- 
canes aimed  a  terrific  blow  at  the  prow  of  the  Wastrel. 
The  ship  shivered,  trembled  and  collapsed.  With  a  stifled 
gasp  I  woke.  Our  sickly  lantern  was  guttering  in  a 
sooty  stream  of  smoke.  Young  Mansfield  stood  in  the 
center  of  the  cabin  buckling  his  pistol  belt.  From  some- 
where came  a  sound  of  rushing  water  and  a  medley  of 
shouts  and  oaths  and  pistol  shots.  A  dingy  rat  scuttled 
wildly  out  from  between  my  feet  and  whisked  away 
through  the  crack  under  our  bolted  door.  While  I  stood 
there  stupidly  inactive,  hardly  as  yet  untangling  fact  and 
dream,  Mansfield  handed  me  my  belt  and  revolver. 

64 


THE  END  OF  THE  "WASTKEL"  65 

"  Slip  on  your  shoes  and  fetch  along  a  life-belt,"  he 
commanded  steadily.  "  It  has  come." 

We  jerked  open  the  door  and  groped  along  the  alley- 
way in  darkness,  and,  as  we  guiJed  our  steps  with  hands 
fumbling  the  walls,  water  washed  about  our  ankles.  The 
lights  there  had  gone  out.  With  one  guiding  hand  on 
the  wall  and  one  on  Mansfield's  shoulder,  I  made  my 
labored  way  toward  the  deck  ladder. 

Without  a  word  and  as  of  right,  the  young  Englishman, 
who  had  heretofore  lacked  initiative,  now  assumed  com- 
mand of  our  affairs.  We  needed  no  explanation  to  tell 
us  that  the  pandemonium  which  reigned  above  was  not 
merely  the  result  of  mutiny.  A  hundred  patent  things 
testified  that  this  shambling  tramp  of  the  seas  had 
received  a  mortal  hurt.  The  stench  of  bilge  sickened  us 
as  the  rising  water  in  her  hull  forced  up  the  heavy  and 
fetid  gases.  The  walls  themselves  were  aslant  under  a 
dizzy  careening  to  starboard. 

She  must  have  steamed  full  front  on  to  a  submerged 
reef  and  destruction.  It  was  palpably  no  matter  of  an 
opening  seam.  She  had  been  torn  and  ripped  in  her 
vitals.  She  was  dying  fast  and  in  inanimate  agony.  In 
the  rickety  engine-room  something  had  burst  loose  under 
the  strain.  Now  as  she  sank  and  reeled  there  came  a 
hissing  of  steam;  a  gasping,  coughing,  hammering  con- 


66  THE  POKTAL  OF  DREAMS 

vulsion  of  pistons,  rods  and  driving  shafts,  suddenly 
turned  into  a  junk  heap  running  amuck. 

It  is  questionable  whether  there  would  have  been  time 
to  lower  away  boats  had  the  most  perfect  discipline  and 
heroism  prevailed.  There  was  no  discipline.  There 
were  no  available  boats,  except  the  two  hanging  from  the 
bridge  davits,  and  about  them,  as  we  stumbled  out  on 
the  decks,  raged  a  fierce  battle  of  extermination,  as  men, 
relapsed  to  brutes,  fought  for  survival. 

I  have  since  that  night  often  and  vainly  attempted  to 
go  back  over  that  holocaust  and  arrange  its  details  in 
some  sort  of  chronology.  I  saw  such  ferocity  and  con- 
fusion, turning  the  deck  into  a  shambles  in  an  incon- 
ceivably short  space,  that  even  now  I  cannot  say  in  what 
sequence  these  things  happened.  I  have  a  jumbled 
picture  in  which  certain  unimportant  details  stand  out 
distinctly  while  great  things  are  vague.  I  can  still  see, 
in  steel-black  relief,  the  silhouetted  superstructure,  fun- 
nels and  stanchions ;  the  indigo  shadows  and  ghostly  spots 
of  white  under  a  low-swinging  half-moon  and  large  softly- 
glowing  stars.  The  sky  was  clear  and  smiling,  in  the 
risor  sardonicus  of  my  dream. 

I  have  sometimes  felt  that  all  the  difference  between 
the  courageous  and  craven  lies  in  the  chance  of  the 
instant  with  which  the  numbers  fall  on  the  dice  of  life. 
To-day's  coward  may  be  to-morrow's  hero.  For  an 


THE  END  OF  THE  "WASTKEL"  67 

instant,  with  an  unspeakable  babel  in  my  ears  and  a  pic- 
ture of  human  battle  in  my  eyes,  I  knew  only  the  chaotic 
confusion  that  comes  of  panic.  Then  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  one  detail  and  all  physical  fear  fell  away  from  me.  I 
found  myself  conscious  only  of  contempt  for  the  strug- 
gling, clawing  terror  of  these  men  who  were  as  reasonless 
and  ineffective  as  stampeding  cattle.  The  detail  which 
steadied  me  like  a  cold  shower  was  the  calmness  of  young 
Mansfield  as  he  waited  at  my  side,  his  face  as  imperson- 
ally puzzled  as  though  he  were  studying  in  some  museum 
cabinet  a  new  and  strange  specimen  of  anthropological 
interest. 

We  both  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  forward  superstruc- 
ture as  yet  unseen.  All  the  ferocity  of  final  crisis  swirled 
and  eddied  about  the  bridge  upon  which  we  looked  as  men 
in  orchestra  chairs  might  look  across  the  footlights  on  a 
stage  set  for  melodrama.  Apparently  the  crew  had 
already  discovered  to  its  own  despair  that  Coulter's 
inhuman  orders  for  scuttling  the  boats  had  been  carried 
out,  and  that  of  all  the  emergency  craft  carried  by  the 
Wastrel,  only  those  ridiculously  insufficient  ones  hanging 
by  the  port  and  starboard  lights  of  the  bridge  offered  a 
chance  of  escape.  At  all  events,  the  other  boats  hung 
neglected  and  unmanned.  That  the  whole  question  was 
one  of  minutes  was  an  unescapable  conclusion.  One 
could  almost  feel  the  settling  of  the  crazy,  ruptured  hull 


68  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

as  the  moments  passed  and  each  time  I  turned  my  head 
to  glance  back  with  a  fascinated  impulse  at  the  smoke- 
stack I  could  see  that  its  line  tilted  further  from  the  ver- 
tical. 

Heffernan  was  in  charge  of  the  starboard  boat,  already 
beginning  to  run  down  its  lines,  and  over  that  on  the 
port  side,  Coulter  himself  held  command. 

It  seemed  that  when  the  moment  of  final  issue  came, 
a  few  of  the  foremast  men  had  preferred  entrusting 
their  chances  to  obeying  the  captain,  whose  effectiveness 
had  been  proven,  to  casting  their  lots  with  their  mates. 
These  were  busy  at  the  tackle.  On  the  deck  level  howled 
and  fought  the  mutineers.  Already  corpses  were  clutter- 
ing the  space  at  the  foot  of  the  steep  ladder  that  gave — 
and  denied — access  to  the  bridge.  Probably  the  revolver 
shots  we  had  heard  as  we  groped  our  way  from  our  cabin 
had  been  the  chief  officer's  terse  response  to  the  first  mad 
rush  for  that  stairway.  Now  as  he  awaited  the  lowering 
away,  Coulter  stood  above,  looking  down  on  the  sicken- 
ing confusion  with  a  grim  expression  which  was  almost 
amusement.  The  fighting  went  on  below  where  the 
frantic,  terror-stricken  fellows  swarmed  and  grappled 
and  swayed  and  disabled  each  other  in  the  effort  to  gain 
the  ladder.  But  when  someone  rose  out  of  the  mael- 
strom and  struggled  upward  it  was  only  to  be  knocked 
back  by  the  ax,  upon  which,  in  the  brief  intervals 


THE  END  OF  THE  "WASTREL"  69 

between  assaults,  Coulter  leaned  contemplating  the  battle- 
royal.  The  revolver  he  had  put  back  in  his  pocket.  It 
was  not  needed,  and  he  was  conserving  its  effectiveness 
for  another  moment. 

In  telling  it,  the  picture  seems  clear  enough,  but  in  the 
seeing,  it  was  a  thing  of  horrible  and  tangled  details, 
enacted  as  swiftly  as  a  moving-picture  film  run  too 
rapidly  on  its  reel. 

There  were  shouts  and  quick  staccato  orders  piercing 
the  blending  of  terrorized  voices — an  oath  snapped  out — 
a  shriek — a  struggling  mass — a  desperate  run  up  the 
ladder — hands  straining  aloft  to  pull  down  the  climber 
and  clear  the  way — a  swift  blow  from  above,  a  thud  on 
the  deck  below — a  sickening  vision  of  slaughter.  Over 
it  all  pounded  the  hammering  racket  from  the  dis- 
organized engines.  Soon  came  the  stench  of  smoke  and 
out  of  one  of  the  after  hatches  mounted  a  thin  tongue  of 
orange  flame,  snapping  and  sputtering  vengefully  for  a 
moment,  then  leaping  up  with  a  suddenly  augmented 
roar.  The  twin  elements  of  destruction,  water  and  fire, 
were  vying  in  the  work  of  annihilation. 

I  turned  my  head  for  an  instant  to  look  back  at  the  new 
menace,  and  clutched  Mansfield's  arm.  Aloof  with 
folded  arms  against  the  rail,  making  no  effort  to  partic- 
ipate in  the  riot,  stood  young  Lawrence.  The  fast- 
spreading  flames  lit  up  his  face.  His  attitude  and  expres- 


70  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

• 

sion  were  those  of  quiet  disgust.  His  lips  were  set  in 
scorn  for  the  superlative  excitement  of  his  fellows.  He 
was  the  stoic  awaiting  the  end,  with  a  smile  of  welcome 
for  the  acid  test  which  held,  for  him,  no  fear.  It  was 
as  though  the  rising  rim  of  water  brought  a  promise  of 
grateful  rest.  He  saw  ahead  nothing  except  release  from 
all  the  wild  turmoil  and  misery  which  had  spoken  itself 
without  words  that  evening  when  Coulter  had  silenced 
the  improvisation  of  his  violin. 

But  if  the  end  was  a  thing  of  quiet  philosophy  to  Law- 
rence, it  was  not  so  to  others.  The  lurid  flare,  which 
turned  the  impassioned  picture  in  a  moment  from  a  sil- 
houette of  blacks  and  cobalts  to  a  crimson  hell,  seemed  to 
inflame  to  greater  madness  men  already  mad.  There 
was  a  rush  for  the  rails.  We  saw  figures  leaping  into 
the  sea.  There  had  been  some  hitch  on  the  bridge,  due 
no  doubt  to  the  miserable  condition  of  everything  aboard 
the  disheveled  tramp.  The  boats  were  not  yet  launched, 
but  now  the  men  were  embarking.  Coulter  himself  was 
the  last  to  leap  for  the  swinging  boat,  and  a  moment 
before  he  did  so  Hoak  appeared.  He  had  miraculously 
made  his  way  alive  out  of  the  engine-room's  inferno,  and 
his  coming  was  that  of  a  maniac.  His  huge  body,  bare 
to  the  waist,  sweat-streaked  and  soot-blackened  and  fire- 
blistered,  was  also  dark  with  blood.  His  voice  was  raised 
in  demented  laughter  and  every  vestige  of  reason  had 


THE  END  OF  THE  « WASTREL"  71 

deserted  eyes  that  were  now  agleam  only  with  homicidal 
mania.  From  the  companionway  to  the  bridge,  his 
course  was  as  swift  and  sure  as  a  homeing  pigeon's.  He 
brandished  the  shovel  with  which  he  had  been  shame- 
fully forced  to  feed  the  maws  of  the  furnaces.  The 
struggling  men  fell  back  before  his  onslaught.  But 
Hoak  had  no  care  for  self-preservation.  His  sole  mission 
was  reprisal. 

The  fight  about  the  ladder's  foot  had  waned.  With  a 
leap  that  carried  him  half-way  up  and  an  agility  that 
knew  no  thwarting  the  madman  made  the  upper  level. 
The  tyrannical  despot  of  the  vessel,  standing  poised  for 
his  swing  to  the  boat  raised  the  pistol  which  had  already 
halted  other  mad  rushes  during  the  last  sanguinary  min- 
utes. At  its  bark  Hoak  staggered  to  his  knees,  but  was 
up  again  and  charging  forward  with  the  impetus  of  a 
wounded  rhinoceros.  He  had  one  deed  to  do  before 
he  died  and  would  not  be  denied.  The  flying  shovel 
narrowly  missed  the  captain's  head  as  he  jumped  for  the 
boat,  but  the  seaman  with  his  lips  parted  over  the  snarl 
of  clenched  teeth  fought  his  painful  way  to  the  davit, 
gripping  a  knife  which  he  had  brought  in  his  belt.  His 
eyes  glowed  with  the  strange  light  that  madness  lends 
and  his  muscles  were  tensed  in  the  brief  exaggerated 
strength  of  a  supreme  effort.  He  hurled  himself  to  the 
out-swung  support  and  seizing  the  stern  line  began  hack- 


72  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

ing  at  its  tarred  tautness  as  he  bellowed  ghastly  laughter 
and  blasphemies.  Coulter  from  his  place  below  sent  two 
more  bullets  into  the  great  hulk  of  flesh  that  hung  tena- 
ciously and  menacingly  above  him,  but,  as  the  second 
spat  out,  the  rope,  none  too  good  at  best,  parted  and  the 
boat,  held  only  by  its  bow  line,  swung  down  with  a  mighty 
snap,  spilling  its  occupants  into  the  sea  like  apples  tossed 
from  an  overturned  plate.  We  had  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  the  captain  clinging  to  the  gunwale,  his  legs  lashing  out 
flail-like.  Then  his  hold  loosened  and  he  fell  with  a 
splash  into  the  phosphorus  water  where  the  sharks  were 
already  gathering.  And  at  the  same  moment,  his  mission 
performed,  Hoak  slowly  slid  around  the  curving  davit 
and  dropped  limply  after  him. 

Young  Mansfield's  voice  came  vaguely  to  my  ear. 
"They've  overlooked  the  life-raft,"  he  said.  "Let's 
have  a  try  at  that.  There's  not  much  time  now." 

The  starboard  scuppers  were  letting  in  sea  water  and 
the  flames  were  creeping  close,  as  we  turned  together, 
holding  to  the  shadows  of  the  superstructure,  and  ran 
forward. 

We  were  tearing  our  fingers  raw  over  stiffened  knots 
when  a  rush  of  feet  interrupted  us.  The  next  instant  I 
saw  my  companion  lashing  out  with  the  butt  of  his  pistol, 
and  surrounded  by  a  quartette  of  assailants.  In  the 
moonlight  he  loomed  gigantic  and  heroic  of  proportion. 


THE  E^D  OF  THE  "  WASTREL  "  73 

I,  too,  was  surrounded  and  conscious  only  of  a  wild  new 
elation  and  battle-lust,  as  I  fought. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  terrific  shock,  preceded  by  a 
wildly  screaming  hiss  in  the  bowels  of  the  Wastrel's  hull. 
The  torn  shell  quivered  in  an  insensate  death-rattle,  and 
under  a  detonation  at  once  hollow  and  loud  a  mass  of 
timbers  shot  upward  amidships.  The  boilers  had  let  go 
and  we  hung  wavering  for  the  final  plunge,  yet  it  did  not 
come  at  once.  Then  I  suppose  I  was  struck  by  falling 
debris.  With  a  dizzy  sense  of  stars  dancing  as  law- 
lessly as  rocket  sparks  and  dying  as  quickly  into  black- 
ness, I  lost  all  hold  on  consciousness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN    STRANGE    CIRCUMSTANCES. 

PONGEE  pajamas  and  a  revolver  belt  constitute  a 
light  equipment  even  for  the  tropics,  but  that  was 
the  least  pressing  of  my  concerns. 
How  long  I  had  remained  insensible  I  can  only  esti- 
mate, but  often  there  come  back  to  me,  from  that  time, 
wraith-like  shreds  of  memory  in  which  I  seem  to  have 
drifted  down  the  centuries.     I  recall   for  one  thing  a 
stunned  and  throbbing  aching  back  of  the  eyes  and  a  half- 
conscious  gazing  up  at  rocking  stars. 

At  all  events,  when  rational  understanding  returned 
to  me,  the  sun  was  glaring  insufferably  from  a  scorched 
zenith.  I  began  to  patch  together  fragments  of  memory 
and  to  call  loudly  for  Mansfield.  There  was  no  answer, 
and  when  I  attempted  to  rise  I  found  myself  roughly 
lashed  to  the  life-raft  by  several  turns  of  a  line  so  tightly 
drawn  that  the  sensory  nerves  in  my  legs  gave  no 
response  to  my  movements. 

My  support  was  rocking  in  its  lodgment  between  two 

74 


IN  STRANGE  CIRCUMSTANCES  75 

weed-trailing  boulders,  stained  like  verdigris  and  licked 
smooth  by  the  lapping  of  the  sea.  Off  to  my  front 
stretched  waters,  so  quiet  that  they  seemed  almost  tide- 
less,  though  at  a  distance  I  could  hear  the  running  of  surf. 
To  look  behind  involved  a  painful  twisting  of  my  neck, 
but  I  made  the  effort,  and  was  rewarded  with  the  sight  of 
land.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  smooth  reaches  of  white 

* 

sand  met  the  water  in  a  graciously  inviting  beach.  Be- 
yond it  and  mounting  upward  from  palm  fringe  to  snow- 
cap  rose  the  very  respectable  proportions  of  a  volcanic 
island.  The  coral  rocks  which  had  caught  my  raft  were 
outposts  of  many  others  that  went  trooping  shoreward, 
breaking,  here  and  there,  the  surface  of  jade-green  shal- 
lows. 

From  the  deep  turquoise  of  the  outer  sea  to  the  white 
rim  of  the  sands  ran  a  gamut  of  colorful  beauty.  The 
mountain,  as  symmetrically  coned  as  Fuji-yama,  stood 
over  it  all  in  grave  dominance.  Off  to  the  left  sponge- 
like  cliffs  broke  steeply  upward  from  the  level  of  the 
beach  and  about  their  clefts  circled  endless  flights  of  gulls. 
There  I  knew  the  rising  tide  would  thunder  and  break 
itself  to  pieces  in  a  thousand  plumes  of  spray. 

But  how  had  I  reached  this  place  and  what  had  become 
of  Mansfield  ?  It  must  have  been  he  who  had  lashed  me 
to  the  raft.  From  no  one  else  on  the  Wastrel  could  I 
have  expected  better  treatment  than  "  a  cutlass  swipe  or 


76  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

an  ounce  of  lead."  Palpably,  he  had  emerged  from  the 
battle  victor,  and,  save  for  myself,  sole  survivor.  I 
conjectured  that  when  he  had  floated  the  raft  from  the 
partly  submerged  deck,  he  had  found  the  spark  of  life 
still  lurking  in  my  pulses  and  had  made  me  fast  upon  its 
timbers.  Perhaps  an  over-trust  in  his  ability  to  remain 
afloat  had  made  him  less  careful  of  himself.  Possibly 
he  had  lost  consciousness  as  we  drifted  and  had  been 
washed  over-side,  to  fall  prey  to  the  prowling  sharks.  I 
could  not  hope  to  know  what  his  end  had  been,  but  I 
wished  that  I  might  have  shared  it  with  him. 

I  fumbled  at  the  soaked  knots  of  my  rope  with  fingers 
that  had  grown  numb.  When,  at  last,  I  was  free  and  had 
to  some  extent  restored  the  circulation  in  my  stagnant 
veins,  I  began  the  task  of  freeing  my  oarless  craft  from 
its  wedged  position  so  that  the  insetting  tide  might  carry 
me  to  the  shore. 

In  the  pocket  of  my  pa  jama  jacket,  soaked  with  salt 
water  and  almost  reduced  to  a  pulp,  I  found  the  letter 
which  I  stood  charged  to  deliver  to  the  girl  in  Sussex.  I 
laughed.  I  knew  that  I  was  not  in  reality  the  solitary 
survivor  of  the  Wastrel.  I  was  merely  the  latest  survivor. 
I  was  to  die  more  slowly  than  my  fellows.  This  sun,  at 
the  end  of  my  lingering,  would  beat  down  on  my  bones, 
whitened,  disjointed  and  perhaps  vulture-plucked.  The 
revolver  in  my  belt  was  already  clouding  into  red  rust 


IN  STRANGE  CIRCUMSTANCES  77 

under  the  washing  of  the  night's  salt  water.  I  experi- 
mentally turned  the  cylinder  and  found  that  the  corrosion 
had  not  yet  attacked  the  mechanism.  One  cartridge 
could  cheat  my  sentence  of  slow  death,  yet  I  did  not  fire 
the  shot. 

Life  had  heretofore  been  a  thing  I  would  have  willingly 
surrendered.  Now,  I  found  myself  standing  precariously 
on  the  narrow  and  very  slippery  edge  of  existence,  and 
with  Death  advancing  on  me  I  no  longer  wished  to  die. 
The  very  odds  against  me  brought  a  dogged  desire  to 
cling  until  my  feet  should  slip  and  my  fingers  could  no 
longer  hold  their  life-grip.  Meantime  I  should  probably 
go  mad,  but  that  lay  hereafter.  At  present  I  had  only 
to  wait  for  the  tide.  Since  I  could  not  hurry  the  ocean 
pulse,  I  must  lie  there  thinking. 

From  the  sea  I  could  look  for  rescue  only  by  a  miracle. 
What  had  been  Coulter's  course  or  destination  he  had  not 
confided,  but  I  knew  that  we  had  for  days  been  in  imper- 
fectly charted  waters  where  our  screws  had  perhaps 
kicked  up  a  virgin  wake.  We  had  passed  atolls  marked, 
on  the  chart,  P.  D.  and  even  E.  D.  ("  position  doubtful  " 
and  "  existence  doubtful "),  and  to  hope  that  some  other 
wanderer  might  shortly  follow  would  be  taxing  coinci- 
dence too  far. 

Only  God  knew  what  type  of  human,  animal  and 
reptilian  life  the  island  held.  I  could  view  it  across  the 


78  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

accursedly  beautiful  waterway  and  speculate  upon  its 
nature,  but  I  could  beat  up  no  confidence  in  its  treatment 
of  me.  Its  aspect  would  have  been  magnificent  had  its 
lush  greenery  not  wrapped  and  softened  every  command- 
ing crag  and  angle,  but  it  was  a  loveliness  which  suggested 
treacherous  menace ;  the  deceptive  beauty  of  the  panther 
or  of  the  soft-gliding  snake  that  charms  its  prey  to  death. 

Isolation  here  would  sap  my  mental  essence  and 
atrophy  my  brain,  unless  some  device  could  be  found  by 
which  I  could  side-focus  and  divert  my  trend  of  thought. 
Even  had  the  young  girl's  diary  remained  to  me,  I  might 
by  it  have  kept  myself  reminded  of  life  in  those  civilized 
spots  which  I  could  hardly  hope  to  revisit ;  and  so  I  might 
die  sane.  A  single  book  would  have  helped.  I  had  been 
credited  with  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  so  whimsical  as  to 
be  almost  irresponsible.  If  now  I  could  invoke  that 
facetious  quality  to  my  salvation  I  might  hope  to  be 
regarded  as  a  consistent  humorist. 

At  length  I  saw  that  the  tide  was  setting  in,  carrying 
my  raft  with  it,  and  realized  that  I  was  hungry.  When  I 
had  once  more  under  my  feet  the  feel  of  solid  earth,  the 
sun  was  hanging  near  the  snow-capped  crater  of  the 
volcano.  I  left  for  to-morrow  all  problems  of  explora- 
tion, and  stripping  to  the  skin,  ran  up  and  down  the  soft 
sand  of  the  beach  until  the  blood  was  once  more  pulsing 
regularly  through  my  naked  body.  Then  on  hands  and 


IN  STBAXGE  CIRCUMSTANCES  79 

knees  I  pursued  and  devoured  numbers  of  the  unpalatable 
crabs  that  scuttled  to  hiding  under  slimy  tangles  of  sea 
weed.  My  throat  was  hot  and  sticky  with  the  parch  of 
thirst,  but  as  night  fell  the  jungle  began  to  loom  darkly, 
a  forbidding  hinterland,  and  no  fresh  water  came  down 
to  my  beach. 

The  melting  show  was  a  guarantee  of  springs  and  a 
man  can  endure  three  days  without  drinking  if  he  must. 
I  stretched  myself  between  two  large  rocks  just  upward 
of  the  high-tide  line,  cursing  stout  Cortez  and  all  those 
perniciously  active  souls  who  insisted  on  discovering  the 
Pacific  Ocean. 

Sleep  did  not  at  once  come  to  my  relief.  I  saw  the 
stars,  close  and  lustrous,  parade  across  the  night,  and 
instead  of  planning  while  I  lay  awake  practical  things  for 
the  morrow,  as  a  good  woodsman  might  have  done,  I  was 
thinking  futilely  of  the  psychological  features  of  my 
predicament.  Possibly  the  doctor's  prediction  of  insanity 
had  lain  dormant  in  some  brain  cell  from  which  it  was 
now  emerging  to  frighten  me.  I  feared  less  for  the  hunger 
of  my  body  than  for  the  impossibility  of  feeding  my  mind. 
It  occurred  to  me  that  keeping  a  record  of  my  emotions 
would  at  once  serve  to  fight  back  atrophy  and  leave  an 
interesting  record  for  those  who  might,  but  almost  cer- 
tainly would  not,  come  in  after  days  to  the  island.  Then 
I  recalled  that  in  my  penless  and  paperless  plight  I  was 


80  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

as  far  from  the  possibility  of  writing  as  from  the  power 
to  ring  for  a  taxicab  and  drive  home. 

Yet  the  idea  of  a  diary  fascinated  me.  I  wished  to 
write  in  frankness  what  it  felt  like  to  die  at  the  foot  of 
an  undiscovered  volcano.  There  came  to  my  mind  an 
example  I  wished  to  emulate.  I  had  come  upon  a 
report  made  public  by  the  Naval  Department  of  Japan  in 
which  was  quoted  a  letter  written  by  Lieutenant  Sakuma, 
from  the  bottom  of  Hiroshima  Bay,  where  his  submarine 
had  struck  and  failed  to  rise  again. 

Most  of  his  crew  lay  dead  in  the  sunken  vessel,  and  he 
himself  was  slowly  and  painfully  succumbing  to  strangu- 
lation. He  devoted  to  a  note  of  apology  addressed  to  his 
Emperor  those  hours  spent  in  dying,  and  expressed  the 
hope  that  his  message  might,  in  future,  be  of  value  in  the 
avoidance  of  similar  fatalities.  He  praised  the  gallantry 
of  his  subordinates. 

The  letter,  read  in  the  Mikado's  palace  a  week  later, 
when  the  submarine  had  been  raised  with  its  dead,  was 
in  the  stoic  style  of  the  race  and  severely  official.  It 
culminated  in  a  broken  sentence. 

"It  is  now  12:30  P.  M.  My  breathing  is  so  difficult 
and  painful — I  thought  I  could  blow  out  gasoline  but  I 
am  intoxicated  with  it — Captain  Nakano — it  is  now  12 140 
P.  M.— I ." 

There  it  ended.     It  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  could  busy 


IN  STRANGE  CIRCUMSTANCES  81 

myself  in  faint  duplicate,  with  so  human  a  record  of 
approaching  the  ferry,  I  could  be  in  a  measure  consoled. 
Then  gazing  at  the  Southern  Cross,  before  sleep  brought 
respite,  I  found  myself  thinking  once  more  of  the  elusive 
lady  who  had  so  often  escaped  my  inquisitive  glance  and 
whose  face  I  should  now  never  see. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NATURE  INDULGES  IN  SATIRE 

THOUGH  I  am  not  giving  authorship  to  this  nar- 
rative with  a  view  to  its  general  perusal,  I  am 
determined  so  to  write  it  that  if  other  eyes  do 
chance  upon  it  they  may  read  the  true  records  of  a  man's 
emotions  under  those  circumstances. 

I  shall  never  be  able  to  coax  myself  into  any  illusion 
of  heroism  in  my  adventures  and  I  shall  set  down  my 
most  abject  terrors  in  equal  and  impartial  degree  with 
the  few  occasions  in  which  the  instinct  of  self-preserva- 
tion enabled  me  to  rise  to  the  need  and  bluff  magnifi- 
cently. 

The  case  of  the  submarine  commander  of  Nippon  was 
different.  He  wished  to  leave  behind  him  such  a  mes- 
sage as  an  Emperor  might  read,  and  with  exalted  devotion 
to  his  object,  he  left  it.  Still,  had  some  miracle  brought 
his  vessel  to  the  surface  before  the  end,  who  knows  but 
that,  in  the  confessional  of  his  own  memory,  he  might 

82 


NATURE  INDULGES  IN  SATIRE  83 

have  acknowledged  a  very  delirium  of  terror?  Who 
knows  but  that  between  the  period  of  one  unflinching 
paragraph  and  the  capital  of  the  next,  there  may  have 
been  intervals  of  wallowing  in  the  trough  of  physical 
despair  ? 

At  least  with  me  there  were  many  fears.  The  night 
went  by  a  road  of  nightmare  and  thirst  which  led  to  no 
haven  of  rest.  *I  slept  fitfully  and  in  terror,  and  awoke 
at  its  end  to  a  feeling  of  exhaustion.  For  a  while  I 
dreaded  to  rise  and  face  the  possibilities  of  a  new  day. 
It  was  only  the  burning  torture  of  thirst  that  finally  out- 
weighed panic  and  drove  me  in  search  of  water.  I  held 
timidly  to  the  shore,  distrusting  the  jungle  and  dodging 
furtively  from  rock  to  rock,  with  straining  eyes  and  ears. 
Climbing  among  the  ragged  boulders  which  were  strewn 
like  fragments  of  fallen  masonry  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff, 
I  shortly  came  upon  a  thread  of  clear  water,  where  I  lay 
and  slaked  my  thirst.  After  that  came  a  renewed  fresh- 
ness and  a  sudden  return  of  vigor.  I  began  also  to  feel  a 
healthful  hunger,  and  when,  in  clambering  to  the  top  of 
a  steep  rock,  I  frightened  a  shrieking  gull  from  her  nest, 
I  fell  avidly  on  the  eggs  she  left  behind. 

As  the  sun  climbed,  a  tepid  humidity  freighted  the  air, 
but  the  trade-wind,  rising  steadily  and  freshly,  tempered 
it  and  stirred  the  delicate  fronds  of  palm  and  fern. 

The  cliff  was  honeycombed  with  small  irregular  caverns 


84  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

and  rifts.  Some  were  mere  grottoes,  but  others  went 
back  into  somber  recesses  deeper  than  I,  with  no  means 
of  lighting  my  steps,  cared  to  explore.  For  my  dwelling 
place  I  selected  one  that  broadened  from  a  twisted  and 
narrow  fissure  to  a  crude  chamber  large  enough  for  a 
wolf's  den,  or  at  need  a  man's  refuge.  A  fern-fringed 
brooklet  trickled  across  the  opening. 

For  my  door  yard  I  had  a  small  plateau  with  a  sheer 
wall  of  cliff  at  my  back  and  a  steep  drop  at  the  front. 
One  must  climb  to  reach  the  place  which  is  an  advantage 
where  the  tenant  may  desire  to  roll  stones  down  upon  the 
heads  of  his  visitors. 

The  Wastrel  must  have  gone  to  the  bottom  near  by,  for 
incoming  tides  from  time  to  time  deposited  on  my  shore 
strange  and  satirical  scraps  of  flotsam.  The  sardonic 
humor  of  the  sea  mocked  me  by  delivering  on  my  beach 
a  tattered  fragment  of  old  newspaper  and  an  empty 
biscuit  tin. 

It  was  two  days  after  my  arrival  that  I  discovered 
some  bulky  thing  lodged,  as  my  raft  had  been,  upon  the 
near-by  rocks.  The  two  days  had  told  upon  me.  My 
pajamas  were  in  ribbons;  my  canvas  shoes  torn,  and  my 
flesh  bruised.  My  feet,  too,  were  cut  and  blistered  and 
my  hands  raw.  I  had  already  tired  of  talking  aloud  to 
myself  and  more  and  more  often  I  caught  myself 
turning  with  a  sudden  start  to  peer  apprehensively 


NATURE  INDULGES  IN  SATIRE  85 

at  the  fringe  of  the  forest.  To  my  growing  morbid- 
ness it  seemed  that  over  the  beauty  of  the  place  hung 
an  impalpable  but  certain  curse.  I  waded  out  eagerly  to 
the  fresh  bit  of  salvage  and  found  a  seaman's  chest  with 
quaintly  knotted  handles  of  tarred  rope.  It  was  of 
stout  .workmanship  and  its  heavy  locks  and  hinges  had 
endured  without  injury  the  buffeting  of  the  sea.  The 
name  of  J.  H.  Lawrence  still  legible  upon  one  end  brought 
back  with  startling  vividness  the  memory  of  a  man  wait- 
ing with  stoical  amusement  the  coming  of  death.  Labor- 
iously enough  I  dragged  it  in,  halting  often  to  pant  and 
wipe  the  sweat  out  of  my  eyes  with  my  forearm. 

The  sun  was  sinking  over  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain 
when  I  at  last  arrived,  exhausted  but  still  tugging  at  my 
prize,  upon  the  plateau  of  my  cliff  apartment.  I  lay  a 
long  while,  my  heart  pounding  with  exertion,  before  I  was 
equal  to  the  task  of  attacking  its  lock  with  a  stone  and  my 
sheath  knife,  and  after  that  it  was  some  moments  before 
the  lock  yielded  and  I  raised  the  heavy  lid.  First  there 
met  my  eyes  a  scattered  collection  of  souvenir  postcards, 
much  discolored  and  faded,  but  sufficiently  preserved  to 
awaken  a  clamor  of  protest  and  longing.  There  were 
tantalizing  pictures  of  the  Cafe  de  Paris  and  Trafalgar 
Square  and  the  bund  at  Hong  Kong. 

Young  Mr.  Lawrence  must  have  been  a  confirmed 
souvenir-buyer.  I  could  trace  his  odyssey  by  trivial  things 


86  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

he  had  picked  up  here  and  there.  Two  curved  daggers 
with  turquoise  settings  in  the  hilt  had  come  from  the 
bazaars  of  Damascus  or  Jerusalem.  A  copper  incense- 
burner  with  a  package  of  scented  tapers  had  been  brought 
from  Tokio  or  Nagasaki.  Equally  useless  things  filled 
package  after  package. 

No  mission  chest  piously  outfitted  at  home  ever  carried 
to  the  remote  heathen  a  more  useless  assortment  of  unnec- 
essaries  than  this  one  brought  to  me.  There  was  not  a 
shirt,  not  an  article  of  utility,  only  trinkets  as  serviceable 
as  doll-babies  to  a  prizefighter.  At  last,  however,  I  came 
upon  two  packages  carefully  wrapped  in  sail-cloth.  So 
painstaking  and  secure  had  been  their  packing  that  when 
I  took  off  the  first  covering  and  the  second,  I  found  that 
the  contents  had  suffered  no  wetting. 

The  first  bundle  contained  the  violin  which  had 
incensed  the  captain  and  several  packages  of  extra 
strings.  As  I  took  it  out,  I  seemed  to  hear  again  its 
plaintive,  wordless  song  and  I  laid  it  down  reverently. 
It  seemed  a  part  of  the  dead  man's  soul — something  inti- 
mate and  wonderful  which  had  outlasted  his  mortality. 

In  the  second  package  was  something  wrapped  in  tissue 
paper  and  very  soft  to  the  touch.  I  opened  it  and  spread 
out  on  the  sand  a  gorgeously  wrought  Mandarin  kimono. 
Its  silk  was  of  the  heaviest  and  richest  quality  and  its 
design  flamed  with  the  unstinted  opulence  of  Chinese 


NATURE  INDULGES  IN  SATIRE  87 

embroidery.  On  the  flowing  sleeves  and  bordered  panels 
were  storks  of  blue  and  silver  flying  among  poppy-like 
flowers  of  crimson  purple.  There  were  also  deli- 
cately worked  streams  and  reeds  and  moons,  all  tangled 
up  with  ranting  dragons  of  gold,  gazing  fiercely  out  from 
eyes  of  inset  jade.  Gold  thread,  silver  thread,  silk  thread, 
cunningly  combined  to  the  making  of  its  dazzling  pattern. 
Some  celestial  dignitary  had  once  ordered  its  embroid- 
ering and,  perhaps,  had  ridden  upon  his  palanquin  garbed 
in  its  splendor  with  the  pride  of  a  peacock  in  his  narrow, 
slanting  eyes.  It  seemed  to  me,  kneeling  there  in  my  torn 
pa  jamas,  my  knees  and  elbows  bruised,  my  stomach  rebell- 
ing against  rank  food,  that  I  could  see  the  whole  picture 
of  which  this  garment  had  once  been  a  brilliant  detail. 
There  were  shouting  coolies  running  ahead  with  huge 
bamboo  staves  to  clear  the  way.  The  grandee's  chair, 
crusted  with  carving,  was  borne  along  in  state.  I  could 
picture  paper  lanterns  swinging  from  slender  poles  and 
plum  blossoms  awave  and  smell  the  heavy  reek  of  burn- 
ing incense,  and  at  the  thought  of  all  this  arrogant  luxury 
I  suffered  as  though  I  were  struggling  through  a  night- 
mare. The  young  derelict  of  the  Wastrel  had,  in  all  like- 
lihood, bargained  for  it  and  haggled  over  its  cost  in  an 
Oriental  shop.  He  had  finally  bought  it  for  a  gift  to  a 
wife  or  sweetheart,  and  even  with  capable  bargaining  it 
must  have  been  a  purchase  beyond  his  means.  Now  in 


futile  nugiiiik  gin  c  it  lay  outspread  before  me  who  was 
sea~wrecked  ****P  iiyi^iMiy  honger.  In  "*f  'mni^  pafif?>j*p' 
I  found  my  first  useful  articles :  a  snail  block  of 
atcnes  that  4J^^e  may  lniy  w^  the  x^omar* 
town  &CKIJIMS  of  San  Francisco  or  Xew  York,  which  burn 
with  an  odious  reek  of  sulphur.  It  was  doubtless  because 
they  partook  of  the  quality  of  a  curiosity  that  he  had  pre- 


Tbere  was  also  one  of  those  shm^-shots  such  as  may  be 
bought  along  water  fronts  where  sramrn  foregather:  a 

small  •^^^•i^y  f*3f  it  loaded  wini  si  KM  ^iiq  ^^i^f^^y^jpQ  |  y^^n 

a  w  i  Jalrftl  I  «l|> 

At  the  extreme  bolloin  of  the  ruclugc,  carefnUy  pre- 
served bet»eeu  two  sheets  of  thick  cardboard,  lay  a  page 
torn  from  a  newspaper.  It  was  on  that  heavy,  gfo^yf*^ 
paper  which  some  journals  use  for  their  pictorial  sections 
and  was  cowered  with  imVrnanrous  fflnstrations. 

I  was  on  die  point  of  throwing  the  thing  away,  when 
some  nnpnHc  led  me  to  turn  it  over.  \Vbat  I  saw  altered 
and  f^nrmJUfA  all  my  fife  from  that  imMiml  forward. 

A  cuitjai  of  dusk  was  beginning  to  fall  upon  the 
hiuteiUnd  at  the  edge  of  the  f ore*.  The  fringe  of  cane 
and  palm  was  fitting  up  won  shadow  and  the  peak  of  the 
volrjno  was  broodng  Jigjimtl  a  sky  of  buniishcd  copper. 

When  I  turned  the  sheet  it  was  as  though  I  had  come 
face  to  face  with  an  Mttul  personafity  where  a  moment 


WATEBE  DTDUDSES  IX  SATIRE  •::- 

there  bad  been  nothing  aonnaaie.    Off  con  ML  it  was 
"-". t   L~    ::   T  ~ : : :  !~L.T  ~'T  ~  IT  i   tr.  ~i    :*  :.i : 


'-  L      •<  —  "  *Vi  M    **      •  ^*    •• 

.  _  .   .  >r   .'...:.  i.  .    •  _   :~    ":  '  ~L:_.  • 
::  r-Lrt-i  ".iT-t"  ^:  i.r  L  ....;i~"ti   :: 


There  axe  adtheotkated  cases,  in  pfcrttr,,  of 
have  lowed  a  face*  seen  only  in  a  picture,    The 
of  da.  \  SKI  has  bid  over 

spefl  of  vhe 


IvBBHMUll          ^       **  ^^—  *-     M  T  ^  ^4_-_J 

nvui  DBS  uuatea.    i  OBCV  oat,  nt 
die  tralh  were  faUL  I  laved  •  that  fast  fcdhof  vinr  Ihe 


vho  smiled  out  aft  me  fram  Ac  fiffdesaaes  off 
and  papei-    The  iiungug  of  Ac  sheet  had  heo  so  cfese 

trammed  at  Ac  top  that:  no  date  or  caplinn  leaaaned,  h>t 
beneath,  the  acKfflms  had  ItfflL  two  wank:  '  ff 
Fiances  —  m  and  with  these  two  wutik  I  nmst 


Bat  for  the  pidbare  itselt 

I  have  aJrcadr  confessed  m^r  pasaonafee  rewctence  for 
beuit}.  Here  befoie  me  "was  bowij'  of  Ac  puue&Jl  type 
I  have  ever  been  pnnrieged  to  see.  It  was  not 

of  a  Billed  painter  who  has  umght  fuuni  a 


with  ideabxalion,    It  bxked  al  the  fire  with  which  Ac 
palette  might  hare  fcjaJkd  it.    It 


90  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

than  the  lens  had  seen,  yet  its  flawlessness  required  no  aid 
of  art  and  asked  no  odds  of  color. 

Her  clear,  young  eyes  smiled  out  at  me  with  a  miracle 
of  graciousness.  Her  perfectly  curving  lips  were  graver, 
and  if  possible  sweeter  than  her  eyes.  Her  chin  and 
throat  were  exquisitely  modeled.  Her  hair  was  abund- 
antly massed  and  heavy.  I  could  guess  from  the  photo- 
graphic tones  that  its  coils  and  escaping  tendrils  of  curl, 
varied  in  shifting  lights  between  the  red  warmth  of  gold 
and  the  amber  of  clear  honey. 

But  what  most  made  this  a  remarkable  photograph  was 
its  living  quality.  So  vital  was  the  effect  as  one  looked, 
that  it  seemed  a  palpitant  personality  of  breath  and  soul. 
The  lips  might  be  trembling  on  the  verge  of  speech  and  in 
the  quiet  smile  hovered  a  delightful  hint  of  whimsical 
humor.  The  whole  bearing  was  queenly  with  that  gra- 
cious pride  which  we  characterize  as  royal  when  we  speak 
of  royalty  as  something  inherently  noble.  For  the  acco- 
lade of  a  smile  from  those  lips,  in  the  flesh,  a  man  might 
undertake  all  manner  of  folly.  The  young  woman  was  in 
evening  dress  and  at  her  throat  hung  a  rope  of  pearls. 

Suddenly  a  transport  of  rage  and  a  bitterness  of  con- 
trast possessed  me.  My  hair  was  matted,  my  arms  and 
hands  raw  and  blackened  with  blood  and  grime.  I  was 
the  picture  of  abandoned  misery.  The  satirical  gods  now 
set  Tantalus-wise  before  my  eyes  a  picture  of  beauty  and 


NATURE  INDULGES  IN  SATIEE  91 

ease  and  shelter — a  pretty  woman  in  the  charming  frip- 
peries of  evening  dress. 

But  while  I  scowled,  her  eyes  smiled  back  into  my  own, 
challenging  in  me  the  vagabond  spirit  of  the  whimsical, 
until  I  too  smiled. 

I  bowed  to  the  picture. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  I  said  aloud.  "  Since  it  is 
impossible  to  alter  the  situation,  the  only  sane  course  is  to 
recognize  its  humor.  While  we  are  together  here,  I  shall 
regard  you  as  a  living  person.  It  shall  be  our  effort  to 
turn  this  poor  jest  on  the  high  gods  who  are  its  authors." 

It  almost  seemed  to  me  that  the  lips  parted  and  the 
eyes  danced  approvingly. 

"  Frances,"  I  added,  "  I  may  call  you  Frances,  may  I 
not,  in  view  of  the  informality  of  our  circumstances? — 
you  are  gorgeous.  It  was  good  of  you  to  come  to  keep 
me  company.  I  needed  you." 

The  air  held  a  twilight  stillness  upon  which  my  words 
fell  clamorously.  I  realized  that  I  had  not  before  spoken 
aloud  for  more  than  a  day.  Into  the  ensuing  silence  came 
a  new  and  alarming  sound.  It  was  half  human  and 
incoherent,  like  a  number  of  voices  at  a  distance.  I  felt 
my  muscles  grow  rigid  and  choked  off  a  half-animal  growl 
that  rose  involuntarily  in  my  throat.  Instinctively  I  was 
whipping  the  revolver  from  its  holster  and  slipping  for- 
ward, crouched  in  the  protection  of  a  rock,  my  eyes  turned 


92  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

toward  the  jungle.  Vaguely  lurking  in  the  gathering  fog 
of  shadow,  where  the  palms  began,  were  some  eight  or 
ten  figures.  It  was  impossible  in  the  waning  light  to 
make  out  what  sort  of  creatures  they  were,  but  they 
moved  with  a  soft  prowling  tread  that  was  disquieting. 
After  a  little  while  they  melted  out  of  sight,  but  until  past 
midnight  I  sat  my  eyes  alertly  fixed  on  the  tangled  dark, 
while  the  low-hung  stars  paraded  across  the  sky. 


A   PORTRAIT   AND  A  TEMPLE 

THE   night,    however,    passed    without    event    and 
morning  came  bathing  the  empty  edge   of  the 
forest  with  crystal  freshness.     The  scene  I  still 
had  to  myself.     My  morning  journey  down  to  the  water's 
edge  for  food  and  bathing  was  made  with  the  most  pain- 
ful caution  and  I  ate  without  relish. 

My  world  had  altered  overnight.  I  was  no  longer 
merely  shipwrecked  but  shipwrecked  among  savages  who 
might  adhere  to  that  perverted  epicureanism  which 
esteems  human  fare  for  its  flesh  pots.  Stories  of  canni- 
balism had  been  plentiful  at  the  captain's  table  on  the 
Wastrel — the  value  of  white  heads  for  decorating  native 
huts  had  been  touched  upon.  My  defense  was  limited  to 
the  six  cartridges  in  the  chambers  of  my  revolver  and  the 
newly  discovered  slung-shot. 

Meantime  I  was  hideously  lonely.  I  turned  the  chest 
on  end  near  the  opening  of  my  cavern  and  spread  the 

93 


94  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

newspaper  portrait  upon  it  for  full  inspection.  The 
two  upper  corners  I  fastened  with  the  curved  and  jewelled 
daggers  from  Jerusalem. 

The  days  which  immediately  followed  marched  slowly 
and  were  much  alike.  It  was  only  in  my  own  state  of 
mind  that  there  was  any  element  of  change  or  develop- 
ment. 

The  lurking  figures  did  not  reappear  at  the  edge  of  the 
jungle  and  I  began  to  hope  that  they  were  members  of 
some  itinerant  band  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  island 
who  had  chanced  upon  this  locality  in  their  wanderings 
and  might  not  again  return.  I  was  not  even  positive 
that  they  had  seen  me. 

Slowly,  weirdly,  while  I  dwelt  in  uncertainty  and 
suspense  the  influence  of  the  lady  in  the  picture  grew 
upon  me  and  compelled  me.  It  may  have  been  at  first, 
and  doubtless  was,  a  form  of  auto-hypnosis.  Already 
the  seed  for  such  an  influence  had  been  planted  in  the 
dependence  which  young  Mansfield  and  myself  came  to 
feel  for  the  unknown  girl's  diary.  Now,  in  utter  isola- 
tion, I  was  doubly  in  need  of  something  to  avert  my 
thoughts  from  channels  which  go  down  to  madness  and 
despair.  The  lifelike  quality  of  the  portrait  made  it 
easier  to  talk  aloud,  and  as  the  spell  grew  I  found  myself 
talking  with  the  softness  of  the  lover. 

There  is  a  power  in  the  spoken  word.     The  mere  act 


A  PORTEAIT  AND  A  TEMPLE  95 

of  giving  audible  expression  is  a  spur  to  thought.  Sitting 
alone  and  debating  how  uncertainly  the  wretched  spark 
of  life  sputtered  at  the  wick  of  my  being,  I  was  the  craven. 
When  I  talked  to  the  picture  whose  lips  smiled  as  though 
all  the  world  were  brave,  I  grew  ashamed  of  my  terror. 

Leaving  my  cave  in  the  morning  to  forage  and  recon- 
noiter  with  the  pistol  at  my  belt,  I  would  carry  with  me, 
as  a  fragrant  memory,  the  gracious  smile  of  her  lips  and 
the  royal  fearlessness  of  her  eyes.  Her  image  nerved 
me  to  endurance ;  gave  me  a  shoulder  touch  on  normal 
thought,  and  enabled  me  to  hold  in  memory  the  world  for 
which  her  evening  gown  and  pearls  were  symbols — and 
in  deeply  morbid  moments  this  saved  me  from  losing  my 
grip.  Certainly,  it  was  all  an  artificial  stay — a  ludicrous 
pretense — but  it  served — and  that  is  the  final  test  of  any 
love  or  any  creed.  It  served. 

As  these  forces  worked,  I,  at  times,  forgot  that  the 
picture  was  that  of  an  unknown.  Its  reality  was  so 
strong  that  it  came  to  stand  for  some  one  I  had  left  behind, 
whom  I  must  live  to  rejoin ;  some  one  inexpressibly  dear 
whose  love  hung  over  me  and  safeguarded  me  like  a 
powerful  talisman.  Often,  in  my  broken  sleep,  I  would 
dream  that  I  was  sore  beset  by  a  thousand  dangers  and 
had  fled  to  my  cave  as  animals  have  fled  to  caves  since 
the  world  began,  and  that  I  stood  huddling  there  miser- 
ably, awaiting  the  end.  Then,  in  the  dream,  she  would 


96  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

come  out  of  the  picture,  as  Galatea  stepped  down  from 
the  lifelessness  of  granite  into  rosy  and  animated  warmth. 
My  assailants  always  fell  back  before  her  coming  and  I, 
despite  my  terror,  would  attempt  to  meet  her  gallantly. 
She  would  open  a  hidden  door  in  the  side  of  the  rock,  and 
lead  me  through  it.  And  always,  in  this  repeated  and 
unvarying  dream,  beyond  the  door  we  stepped  into  a 
brilliantly  lighted  room  where  men  and  women  chatted 
carelessly  in  evening  dress  and  danced  to  the  tinkle  of 
stringed  instruments. 

By  these  degrees  the  illusion  grew  until  my  pretense 
became  a  vagary  and  obsession  and  to  me  ceased  to  be  a 
pretense.  I  fell  back  on  occultism  and  told  myself  that 
I  had  succeeded  by  mere  concentration  of  mind  in  forc- 
ing her  to  project  her  astral  self  across  the  world,  until  I 
had  with  me  her  picture  and  her  essence  of  soul. 

Many  of  life's  most  sacred  and  permanent  institutions 
are  only  fictions,  long  entertained.  My  fiction  became  so 
real  to  me  that  for  periods  I  forgot  to  question  it — then 
sometimes,  at  a  moment  when  the  illusion  was  strongest, 
some  impulse  of  reason  would  strike  in  upon  and  chill 
me,  like  a  sluicing  from  a  cold  bucket.  It  would  come 
upon  me  to  think  of  myself  as  I  should  have  appeared  to 
any  unwarned  stranger,  who  had  found  me  talking,  even 
lovemaking,  with  a  sheet  of  lifeless  paper.  And  from 
that  impersonal  viewpoint  I  would  wonder  if  my  brain 


A  PORTRAIT  AND  A  TEMPLE  97 

had  already  crumbled  to  madness  and  imbecility.  The 
cold  sweat  would  bead  my  forehead.  My  finger  would 
creep  to  the  trigger  of  my  pistol  and  linger  there,  twitch- 
ing with  the  itch  of  self-destruction.  But  soon  the  smil- 
ing lips  would  reassure  me;  the  mood  would  pass  and 
again  I  would  surrender  myself  to  the  pretense  which  was 
grateful  where*  the  truth  was  austere  and  desolate. 

I  discovered  in  my  tramps  about  the  island's  edge  that 
this  spot  seemed  to  be  the  most  favored  home  of  the 
orchid.  This  monarch  of  flowers  bloomed  at  the  jungle's 
margin,  in  an  infinite  variety  of  flaunting  petals,  soft 
colors  and  deeply  glowing  life.  No  other  flower  is  so 
ethereal  and  illusively  lovely.  None  could  be  more  fitted 
for  a  tribute  to  as  impalpable  a  love  as  I  acknowledged.  It 
became  a  part  of  my  daily  program  to  bring  back  with  me 
as  I  returned  to  the  cave,  masses  of  these  splendid  blos- 
soms which  I  heaped  before  her  shrine. 

I  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty-five  and  had  heretofore 
been  immune  to  feminine  fascinations.  I  had  even  been 
characterized  as  a  woman-hater,  though  this  was  an 
injustice.  This  new  obsession,  bewitching — whatever 
you  may  choose  to  term  it — was  not  momentary.  In 
defense  of  my  consistency  I  declare  that  the  thing  re- 
quired two  weeks  at  least  for  its  accomplishment.  And 
in  those  two  weeks  other  affairs  were  developing. 

Of  course,  I  had  been  told,  as  has  every  traveler  in 


98  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

the  south  seas,  that  there  is  not  an  atoll  or  island  left  for 
discovery.  I  had  been  informed  that  on  every  coral 
speck  in  the  reef-strewn  ocean,  there  is  or  has  been,  a 
white  man.  I  knew  now  that  this  was  a  fallacy.  My 
island  was  marked  by  a  volcano  tall  enough  to  proclaim 
itself  as  far  as  a  glass  could  sweep  the  horizon  from  a 
ship's  lookout,  and  if  no  pearl  shell  or  beche-de-mer 
trader,  no  blackbirder  of  the  old  days,  no  windswept 
vessel  of  the  present  had  hitherto  sighted  that  peak,  it 
must  lie  too  far  off  the  course  of  rambling  traffic,  to 
expect  a  visit  now.  I  knew  that  we  had  dropped  down- 
world  for  days  before  the  wreck,  and  I  had  heard 
grumbling,  because  of  the  mysterious  course  being 
steered.  I  was  the  firstcomer — and  yet  the  faint  and 
struggling  instinct  of  hope  urged  the  setting  up  of  a 
tattered  flag  or  two  of  sail  cloth  along  the  beetling  heights. 
From  my  eyrie  in  the  rocks,  the  coast  line  went  away  in 
a  succession  of  broken  and  porous  cliffs  which  I  had  ex- 
plored for  a  distance  of  perhaps  two  miles.  That  two 
miles  held  all  I  had  learned  to  know  of  this  island  which 
was  clearly  a  large  one.  What  the  interior  had  behind 
its  curtain  of  palm  and  moss  and  cane — back  in  the 
impenetrable  jungle — belonged  to  the  mystery  of  an 
unopened  book.  I  did  know  that  off  to  the  left  as  one 
faced  the  sea,  separated  from  me  by  four  or  five  miles  of 
precipitous  coast  line,  loomed  a  headland  from  which  a 


A  POKTRAIT  AND  A  TEMPLE  99 

flag  waving  by  day  would  be  observable — if  ever  a  vessel 
came  across  the  shoulder  of  the  world.  To  reach  the 
point  and  return  would  be  a  day's  journey,  for  the  path 
I  must  take  led  over  a  trail  more  suited  to  a  mountain 
goat  than  a  man  who  had  until  lately  been  civilized. 

One  morning  I  set  out  carrying  tightly  wrapped  one  of 
the  pieces  of  sail-cloth  which  had  come  out  of  the  mate's 
chest.  My  resolution  to  set  my  flag  flying  had  filled  me 
with  a  sort  of  specious  exaltation.  The  venomous  beauty 
of  the  place  was  beyond  description,  and  in  a  measure  I 
yielded  to  its  lure  and  walked  almost  buoyantly.  The 
sea  to  its  skyline  was  blue  with  a  depth  of  sapphire.  The 
tangle  of  the  jungle  was  aflash  with  vivid  and  sparkling 
color.  Small,  harmless  snakes  slid  brightly  aside,  as 
multi-hued  as  shreds  of  rainbow.  I  had  climbed  and 
crawled  for  several  hours,  and  was  beginning  to  suffer 
keenly  from  weariness  and  stone  bruises  on  my  poorly 
protected  feet,  when  I  came  to  a  sort  of  path  running 
upward.  This  led  me  to  a  more  commanding  eminence 
than  I  had  before  reached  and  gave  me  a  view  inland 
over  an  endless  blanket  of  green,  unbroken  forest. 
Ahead  of  me  was  a  still  greater  height,  and  after  a  short 
rest  I  made  my  way  to  the  point  from  which  I  could  look 
across  its  crest.  Then  I  halted  dead  in  my  tracks  and 
stood  fingering  my  revolver.  A  cold  sweat  came  out  on 
my  forehead  and  my  knees  trembled,  threatening  to  fafl 


100  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

me.  It  was  as  though  a  curtain  had  risen  on  a  stage 
set  to  terrify  the  beholder. 

The  high  ground  fell  steeply  away  into  a  basin  whose 
slopes  were  roughly  broken  into  rising  tiers.  These  tiers 
commanded  a  sort  of  amphitheatre  two  hundred  yards  in 
diameter,  through  which  ran  a  small  thread  of  water 
cascading  from  the  interior  elevation.  A  quarter  of  a 
mile  away  began  the  background  of  timber  and  tangle. 

The  bottom  of  the  basin  had  been  worn  smooth  by 
much  treading.  A  boulder  some  four  feet  tall  and  prob- 
ably of  an  equal  thickness  rose,  pulpit  like,  at  the  center. 
Its  top  was  hollowed  out  into  a  bowl  and  its  sides  were 
inscribed  with  crude  hieroglyphics.  Near  it  were  a  half- 
dozen  upright  poles,  surmounted  by  what  seemer  to  be 
cocoanuts.  In  a  dozen  places  under  rude  stone  ovens 
were  the  ashes  of  dead  fires.  Scattering  piles  of  human 
bones — but  nowhere  a  skull — told  me  that  I  had  stumbled 
on  a  kai-kai  temple — a  place  of  cannibal  observances  and 
feasting.  I  did  not  at  once  venture  into  the  hollow  for 
closer  scrutiny.  It  was  not  such  an  institution  as  one 
would  care  to  invade  carelessly.  Over  the  whole  place 
hung  a  horrible  stench.  Flies  buzzed  about  it  in  noisy, 
filthy  swarms.  After  a  long  interval  of  listening  and 
reconnoitering  I  became  convinced  that  this  place  of 
special  observance  was  to-day  as  neglected  as  are  many 
churches  in  Christian  lands  on  week  days. 


A  PORTRAIT  AND  A  TEMPLE  101 

I  crept  tremblingly  down  into  the  abominable  pit  and 
made  my  way  toward  the  stone  altar  prepared  now  for 
any  atrocious  sight.  But  the  climax  of  discovery  came 
when  I  had  crawled  half  way  and  the  cocoanuts  on  the 
poles  resolved  themselves  into  withered,  human  heads, 
sun  dried  and  yellow  fringed. 

These  mummied  skulls  were  for  the  most  part  trophies 
of  old  battles,  but  lying  at  the  top  of  the  rock  was  another 
which  must  have  surmounted  its  living  shoulders  only  a 
few  days  ago.  The  frizzled  hair  was  tied  into  dozens  of 
kinky  knots.  The  facial  angle  was  low  and  slanting  and 
the  coarse  lips  were  hideously  twisted  in  a  snarl  of  death 
and  defiance.  On  the  scalp,  which  a  war  club  had  crushed, 
sat  a  very  beautiful  head-dress  of  gull  feathers,  brilliantly 
dyed  in  green  and  crimson  and  orange.  The  victim  had 
worn  to  his  obsequies  such  a  decoration  as  might  have 
crowned  a  princess  of  the  Incas.  He  had  been  a  warrior 
of  rank  and  now,  as  befitted  his  station,  his  head  lay  dry- 
ing out  on  a  mat  of  yellow  and  brown  wood  pulp. 

A  stifling  nausea  assaulted  the  pit  of  my  stomach.  My 
retreating  steps  reeled  drunkenly,  and  when,  near  the  rim 
of  the  basin,  I  turned  for  a  final  gaze  in  the  fascination  of 
horror,  I  no  longer  had  the  place  to  myself. 

T»wo  human  figures  stood  at  the  farther  rim  of  the 
amphitheater,  silently  regarding  me.  Both  were  thin, 
pigmy-built  men  with  long  arms  and  low  foreheads. 


102  THE  PORTAL  OF  DBEAMS 

Their  faces,  grotesquely  disfigured  with  bone  and  shell 
ornaments  spiked  through  noses  and  ears,  were  bestial 
yet  not  stupid.  Their  eyes  were  beady  and  sharp,  and 
just  now  their  thick  lips  hung  pendulous  with  wonder- 
ment. For  an  instant  I  was  incapable  of  motion ;  then,  as 
they  stood  in  equal  petrification,  I  remembered  and  acted 
on  the  counsel  of  an  east-side  gang  member  whom  I  had 
once  been  privileged  to  know  in  New  York.  I  had  incon- 
sequently  inquired  whether,  in  his  acrimonious  career, 
he  never  came  eye  to  eye  with  fear. 

"  Sure  thing,"  he  had  promptly  replied,  "  but  when  a 
guy  gets  your  goat — stall.  If  you  makes  de  play  strong 
enough  it's  a  cinch  you  gets  his  goat  too." 

By  that  rule  this  was  my  moment  to  "  stall."  I  drew 
myself  up  to  the  limit  of  stature  and  threw  out  my  chest 
in  the  best  semblance  of  arrogance  I  could  assume. 

They  were  decked  like  the  head  of  their  sacrificial 
victim,  in  brilliant  feather  work,  beautifully  and  harmoni- 
ously wrought.  Their  flint-tipped  spears  were  elabor- 
ately carved  and  their  necklaces  were  fashioned  of  shells 
and  teeth.  Some  of  the  teeth  were  human.  For  perhaps 
thirty  seconds  we  held  the  strained  tableau,  then  I 
glanced  over  my  shoulder.  Between  me  and  retreat 
stood  a  third  figure.  Compared  to  his  gaudiness  of 
decking,  the  raiment  of  the  others  was  mean  and  sober. 
One  bare  shoulder  and  arm  was  covered  with  festering 


A  PORTRAIT  AND  A  TEMPLE  103 

ulcers.  His  monkey-like  face  had  the  same  slant  of  brow 
and  heaviness  of  lip,  but  it  worked  constantly  with  a  keen 
and  twitching  play  of  expression  which  argued  speculative 
thought.  As  I  turned  he  was  leaning  on  a  knotted  war- 
club,  and  regarding  me  with  profound  gravity. 


CHAPTER  X 

I  SEEK  ORCHIDS 

INTERNALLY  I  was  quaking,   and  thinking  very 
fast.     The  first  shock  of  their  astonishment  was 
dissipating,  and  two  of  the  three  faces  were  cloud- 
ing into  a  glowering  scrutiny  which  augured  darkly  for 
my  escape.     The  gaze  of  the  third  held  a  grave  per- 
plexity, touched  with  awe,  and  in  the  interval  of  over- 
charged silence  the  other  eyes  dwelt  questioningly  on  his. 
I  knew  from  their  spell-bound  attitudes  that  I  was  the 
first  white  man  they  had  seen  and  an  apparition.    Meas- 
ured by  their  pigmy  standards,  I  was  a  gigantic  being  of  a 
new  type  and  order,  possibly  I  was  even  immortal. 

As  a  man  they  had  no  fear  of  me.  The  revolver  which 
I  had  slipped  from  its  holster  and  cocked  had  not 
impressed  them.  They  knew  nothing  of  its  death-dealing 
quality.  That  was  a  point  in  my  favor.  It  would  afford, 
if  need  be,  six  miracles  of  mortality,  but  the  jungle  that 
had  disgorged  them  could  disgorge  hundreds  of  others 

104 


I  SEEK  ORCHIDS  105 

like  them — perhaps  thousands.  Gods  must  carry  them- 
selves, when  they  walk  among  men,  with  a  godlike  scorn 
of  mundane  dangers.  I  turned  to  the  one  man  who  was 
above  the  others,  exposing  my  back  to  the  two  spears,  as 
though  safe  in  my  consciousness  of  immunity.  I  extended 
one  arm  with  a  gesture  intended  to  epitomize  great 
majesty.  It  was  a  pose  borrowed  from  some  old  sculp- 
tor's conception  of  the  Olympian  Zeus — albeit  shamefully 
exaggerated. 

It  was  an  anxious  moment.  Should  he,  to  whom  I 
made  my  commanding  plea,  lift  his  finger  in  signal,  the 
spears  from  behind,  poisoned  spears  perhaps,  would  strike 
me  down.  But  as  I  strode  forward,  with  one  hand  still 
pointing  heavenward,  I  commanded  him  in  a  mighty  voice 
to  stand  aside. 

He  on  his  part  eyed  me  dubiously,  never  shifting  his 
attitude  or  raising  his  club  from  the  earth,  but  he  per- 
mitted me  to  pass  from  the  amphitheatre  unmolested.  I 
went,  deliberately,  holding  my  gaze  rigidly  to  the  front  and 
using  every  ounce  of  self-control  to  curb  the  impulse  of 
my  feet  to  run,  and  the  impulse  of  my  neck  to  crane.  A 
vestige  of  misgiving,  a  note  of  human  anxiety,  would  have 
destroyed  me. 

My  peril  was  superlative,  and  yet  as  I  look  back  on  the 
occasion,  I  can  see  that  it  overdid  comedy  and  became 
pure  farce.  I  was  defending  my  life  with  burlesque.  My 


106  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

audience  would  not  be  impressed  by  finesse,  and  impress- 
ing it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  In  the  words  of 
the  east-side  bruiser,  I  was  "  makin'  it  strong." 

At  all  events  my  bearing,  in  a  situation  without  prece- 
dent of  etiquette,  found  sufficient  favor  to  cover  my  retreat 
and  I  went  down  to  the  sea  unfollowed.  I  had  none  the 
less  seen  enough  to  set  me  thinking  and  thought  brought 
little  solace.  Were  I  accepted  on  the  basis  of  my  own 
divine  assumption,  and  regarded  as  a  being  from  another 
world,  the  story  would  travel  fast  among  their  villages. 
Its  wonder  would  be  promulgated  and  men  would  burn 
with  curiosity  to  behold  me.  Among  those  who  came  as 
pilgrims  would  be  some  demanding  proofs  and  miracles. 
I  was  now  committed  to  a  permanent  policy  of  bluff.  I 
had  always  been  regarded  as  a  facetious  individual.  Now 
my  life  depended  on  attaining  a  supreme  flippancy  of 
attitude  on  pain  of  sacrifice  to  rites  for  which  I  had  no 
reverence.  When  at  sundown  I  reached  the  place  where 
the  portrait  smiled  whimsically  at  me  from  its  post  of 
honor,  I  sat  for  a  while  looking  into  the  comprehending 
eyes  and  my  thoughts  took  more  cheerful  color.  Before 
me  lay  a  situation  in  which  I  was  to  pit  my  legacy  of 
human  development  against  the  brute  odds  of  minds 
lighted  only  to  the  mistiness  of  dawn. 

"  Frances,"  I  said,  "  you  smile.  Of  course  since  you 
are  fixed  in  print,  you  can't  do  otherwise  than  smile.  I 


I  SEEK  ORCHIDS  107 

wonder — "  I  broke  off  and  became  suddenly  and 
unaccountably  serious.  "  I  wonder  if  you  would  smile, 
were  you  here  with  me  in  the  flesh  as  well  as  merely  in 
the  spirit.  I  wonder  if  you  would." 

Then  with  a  feeling  which  was  tremendously  real, 
I  added  fervently  and  aloud,  "  Thank  God  you  are  not 
here  in  the  flesh — but  I  am  grateful  for  your  smiling. 
Somehow  I  find  it  reassuring." 

After  a  little  reflection  I  summarized  the  entire  situa- 
tion to  the  lady  with  whom  I  discussed  my  affairs. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  I  informed  her,  "  to  their  untu- 
tored and  man-eating  minds  I  present  a  dilemma.  I  am 
either  a  great  immortal,  whom  it  would  be  most  unwise 
to  heckle — or  I  am  very  good  eating, 'in  which  case  it  is 
a  pity  to  let  me  grow  thinner." 

"  It  shall  be  our  care,  dear  lady,"  I  added,  "  to  main- 
tain this  status  of  godship  and  to  that  end  we  must 
arrange  a  little  program  of  simple  miracles  from  time  to 
time.  You  see,"  I  explained,  "  it  won't  be  long  before 
they  will  be  coming  here  and  demanding  what  manner 
of  deity  I  am,  and  what  is  my  immortal  name.  Do  you 
know  what  I  shall  tell  them?" 

I  paused  and  grinned  into  the  smiling  eyes  and  the 
lips  that  seemed  trembling  on  the  verge  of  speech. 

"  I  shall  tell  them,"  I  assured  her,  "  that  in  me  they 
behold  the  great  god  Four-flush." 


108  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

If  I  concede  to  the  cold  logic  of  material  reasoning 
that  this  dependable  companionship  and  love  of  a  man 
for  a  portrait  washed  up  by  the  sea  was  merely  the 
aberration  of  a  brain  unseated  by  solitude,  I  must  also 
believe  that  a  series  of  totally  incredible  coincidences  sub- 
sequently befell  me.  But  if  it  be  that  certain  things  are 
written  in  the  stars  and  certain  passions  are  irrevocably 
decreed,  my  life  is  freed  of  grotesqueness  and  becomes 
logical. 

While  I  lived  under  the  sword  of  the  problematical 
to-morrow,  suspended  by  the  hair  of  an  uncertain  to-day, 
my  dependence  upon  her  grew  greater.  The  brave  man 
is  said  to  die  once  and  the  coward  often,  but  the  line 
between  the  courage  and  cowardice  is  not  absolute. 
There  were  periods  when  I  felt  that  I  could  play  the 
game  and  die  if  I  must,  with  the  detached  philosophy  of  a 
Socrates.  At  other  times  I  wallowed  in  the  pit  of  fore- 
boding and  died  several  times  a  day.  In  these  moods  I 
wished  for  the  moment  of  crisis  which  should  put  my  res- 
olution to  the  touch,  and  end  the  matter. 

The  savages  did  not  approach  my  cave,  but  sometimes 
when  evening  fell  and  the  jungle  spread  itself  in  a  fringed 
blanket  against  the  moonlight,  I  could  make  out  skulking 
patches  of  shadow  at  its  edge.  In  my  rambles  too  I  had 
a  sense  of  being  endlessly  watched  by  unseen  eyes,  and 
once  bending  over  a  sunlit  pool  to  drink,  I  was  startled  by 


I  SEEK  ORCHIDS  109 

the  haggard  face  which  looked  up  from  it  with  streaks  of 
white  in  its  long,  tangled  hair.  Each  day  I  brought  fresh 
orchids  from  the  jungle's  edge  and  heaped  them  before 
my  intangible  lady. 

"  They  are  more  beautiful,  Frances,"  I  told  her,  "  than 
any  I  could  buy  you  along  the  Champs  Elysees  or  Fifth 
Avenue — and  all  they  cost  is  a  ship  and  crew  and  cargo." 

One  morning  I  discovered  that  where  the  growth  of 
cane  and  moss  and  vines  had  formerly  been  thick  and 
unbroken  there  were  now  several  dearly  defined  alley- 
ways, made  by  the  coming  and  going  of  the  blacks,  bent 
on  observing  me.  A  few  inquisitive  steps  into  one  of 
these  trails  revealed,  at  a  little  distance,  a  pool  of  water. 
Its  basin  was  of  mossy  rock,  and  its  edges  were  choked 
with  ferns.  A  slender  waterfall  fed  it,  and  through  the 
cloistered  half-light  of  the  forest  interior  fell  a  few  fervid 
dashes  of  sunlight  like  gold  leaf  on  the  somber  tones  of 
greenery.  The  air  hung  wet  and  steamy  like  the  atmos- 
phere of  a  hot  house.  But  the  marvel  of  it  was  the 
orchids.  They  climbed  and  trailed  and  illumined  the 
place  with  a  dozen  varieties  of  weird  and  subtle  beauty. 
One  could  understand  why  men  take  their  lives  into  their 
hands  and  penetrate  fever-infested  jungles  in  search  of 
newer  types.  Their  delicacy  was  unearthly  and  splendid. 
They  were  not,  it  seemed,  flowers  growing  on  dirt-fed 
stems,  but  blossoms  of  the  gods.  Each  one  was  like  the 


110  THE  POSTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

blooming  of  some  Human  soul  freed  from  the  grossness 
of  the  flesh.  Here  was  a  bloom  as  ethereally  pure  and 
pale  as  the  reincarnation  of  some  flawless  virgin  spirit; 
there  were  flaming  petals  of  such  magnificent  color  as 
might  have  sprung  from  the  heart  of  a  conqueror.  I  saw 
epitomized  in  petal  and  stamen,  all  the  poetry  of  the 
world's  dead  dreams.  I  took  as  many  as  I  could  carry 
back  to  the  portrait,  and  on  the  following  morning  I 
returned  for  more. 

They  lured  me  strangely  with  their  fox  fire  of  sheer 
beauty,  until  I  had  penetrated  the  jungle  to  the  distance 
of  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  stood  in  a  small  opening 
where  I  plucked  an  armful  of  their  blossoms. 

Suddenly,  as  I  started  back,  I  felt  a  biting  pang  in. 
my  left  shoulder,  and  knew  that  I  had  been  speared, 
though  the  tangle  of  the  jungle  revealed  no  human 
form,  and  its  silence  remained  unbroken.  The  spear, 
which  had  come  from  nowhere,  as  it  seemed,  fell  to 
the  ground,  but  not  before  it  had  gashed  my  flesh  and 
left  upon  the  tattered  remnants  of  my  jacket  a  tell- 
tale smear  of  blood. 

I  believed  myself  to  have  been  mortally  poisoned  by 
the  javelin,  and  my  one  wish  now  was  to  escape,  with  the 
semblance  of  greatness  still  upon  me,  and  die  unseen. 
I  went  with  as  much  dignity  as  possible  toward  the  beach, 
backing  through  the  tangle  to  keep  my  flow  of  blood 


I  SEEK  ORCHIDS  111 

concealed.  I  had  no  doubt  that  many  unseen  eyes  fol- 
lowed my  exit  and  even  if  it  were  for  a  brief  time,  I 
wished  to  go  with  the  seeming  of  divine  invulnerability. 
I  even  forced  a  loud  and  derisive  shout  of  laughter  which 
rang  weirdly  through  the  silences.  Wicked  pains  shot 
in  white-hot  currents  through  my  blood  and  racked  my 
muscles.  I  was  weak  with  nauseating  pain  and  dizzi- 
ness swam  in  my  brain.  At  last  the  merciful  rocks  gave 
me  concealment.  I  dropped  on  my  knees,  my  teeth 
gritted,  and  dragged  myself  back  to  my  cave  where  I 
turned  my  face  to  the  rock  wall  to  die. 


CHAPTER  XI 

I  FIND  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD 

YET  I  did  not  die.  While  I  lay  waiting  to  do  so 
the  insistent  ache  of  my  bones,  the  racking  of 
my  wound  and  the  sodden  numbness  of  my  brain, 
slowly  blurred  me  into  apathy.  That  passed  and  the 
delirium  came  on  a  swelling  tide  of  temperature.  Cen- 
turies trampled  roughshod  over  me  and  demons  of 
pain  scourged  me  through  the  seven  hells  of  fever. 
Scorching  wastes  of  time  were  broken  at  long  intervals 
by  little  oases  of  lucidity  when  I  crawled  to  the  opening 
and  drank,  but  even  these  were  clouded  by  shreds  of 
nightmare  horror,  and  remembered  hallucinations. 

Once,  waking  to  momentary  sensibility,  I  found  the 
narrow  cave  still  ringing  witfe  the  echoes  of  my  tor- 
tured and  delirious  shrieks. 

When,  at  last,  I  came  fully  to  myself,  painfully  weak 
and  scalded  with  the  fever,  but  sane,  I  could  see  the 
stars  spangling  my  scrap  of  sky.  My  adventure  had 

112 


I  FIND  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD  113 

occurred  in  the  morning,  but  whether  hours  or  days 
had  played  out  their  scores  I  did  not  know.  I  drank 
and  slept  again.  I  next  woke  to  the  glare  of  forenoon. 
The  clouds  in  my  brain  had  been  swept  away,  and  the 
hand  I  lifted  fell  weakly  back  on  a  forehead  which  was 
cool  and  moist.  ^  The  battling  life  spark  had  triumphed 
over  the  native  poison.  But  when  I  tried  to  drag  myself 
to  the  mouth  of  my  grotto,  my  weak  head  began  ram- 
bling again,  so  that  real  and  unreal  things  wandered 
strangely  together.  My  side  was  lacerated  by  the  pistol 
which  had  been  at  my  belt  as  I  tossed  in  the  fever.  A 
twist  in  the  fissure  brought  me  to  the  point  where  I, 
still  concealed  in  the  dark  shadow,  could  see  the  prim- 
itive terrace  of  my  plateau,  and  there  were  such  things  as 
brought  back  upon  me  an  avalanche  of  terror,  rage  and 
violence. 

The  lady  still  smiled  from  her  post  of  honor  with  her 
gracious  and  fearless  eyes.  The  curved  damascus  dag- 
gers still  held  the  enamelled  sheet  in  place,  but  beyond 
her  I  saw  death.  Against  a  background  of  intense  sea 
and  sky  under  the  glare  of  a  fiercely  brilliant  sun,  stood 
grouped  a  human  ensemble  of  indescribable  color  and 
savagery.  Upon  scores  of  black  and  sweating  torsos; 
upon  gorgeously  dyed  feather  work  and  shell  ornaments, 
the  light  fell  in  color  gone  mad.  They  stood  massed  and 
silent,  their  spears  and  bows  and  clubs  for  the  moment 


THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 


idle.  Their  faces  mutilated  with  spiked  ears  and  nose 
ornaments  and  dyed  teeth,  were  unspeakably  hideous. 
Every  eye  was  just  now  intent  on  the  portrait  of  my 
lady.  At  the  front  stood  the  three  whom  I  had  supposed 
to  be  priests  at  the  amphitheatre,  and  with  them  was  a 
man  very  aged  and  white  haired,  but  erect  and  gor- 
geously appareled. 

Slowly  one  of  the  priests  approached  the  portrait  and 
put  out  an  ulcerous  hand  to  touch  the  face.  A  tidal  wave 
of  unspeakable  fury  caught  me  up  and  swept  me  back 
into  the  realm  of  insanity.  I  was  transplanted  in  an 
instant  to  the  nightmares  of  my  delirium.  I  saw  instead 
of  a  lifeless  picture  the  slender,  breathing  figure  of  the 
woman  I  worshiped  contaminated  by  this  profane  touch. 
I  attempted  to  rush  out  and  die  like  some  Mad  Mullah 
devotee  in  fanatical  battle  with  her  assailants,  but  my 
strength  was  not  equal  to  my  impulse.  I  stumbled  to  my 
knees  and  my  right  hand  fell  upon  the  hilt  of  my  pistol. 
I  whipped  it  out  and  fired.  In  my  agued  hand  it  should 
have  been  harmless  enough,  but  the  range  was  short  and 
I  had  once  been  a  marksman.  I  saw  the  man  crumple 
forward  with  a  short,  strangled  groan.  I  saw  those  at 
the  back  crowding  one  another  over  the  cliff  in  the  panic 
of  their  disordered  flight.  They  had  not  seen  me.  They 
knew  only  that  bolts  of  death  were  striking  them  down. 
I  heard  endless  thunders  as  the  pistol  report  sent  its 


I  FIXD  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD  115 

echoes  beating  and  rebounding  against  the  confined  walls 
of  the  fissure.  Blue  and  slender  lines  of  spiraling  smoke 
went  drifting  out  into  the  air.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  two 
bolder  spirits  stopping  to  drag  away  their  dead.  Then 
I  collapsed  and  lay  for  hours  where  I  had  fallen. 

Once  more  I  awoke  with  a  moist  forehead  and  a  hun- 
ger which  gnawed  at  the  pit  of  my  stomach.  Only  the 
gods  knew  how  long  I  had  been  without  food.  The  air 
fanned  me  with  the  soft,  reviving  breath  of  night.  The 
moon,  riding  up  the  east  made  an  irregular  diagram  of 
silvered  light  across  the  ledge,  and  fell  with  a  reassur- 
ing touch  of  ivoried  white,  on  the  newspaper  sheet  and 
the  portrait. 

I  was  too  famished  and  spent  to  stand,  but  I  made 
the  journey  down  to  the  beach  on  hands  and  knees, 
and  when  I  had  eaten  my  fill  of  unsavory  crabs  I  lay 
for  a  time  in  the  grateful  coolness  of  the  wet  sand  and 
drew  new  strength  from  its  healing.  My  sickness  was 
ended.  The  pitiable  weakness  that  had  made  the  down- 
ward journey  a  torture  was  the  heritage  of  hunger.  I 
had  needed  no  medicine  but  food,  and  now  I  found 
myself  able  to  walk  back  upright.  That  night  I  slept 
sweetly  and  dreamed  once  again  of  the  familiar  door 
beyond  which  lay  luxury  and  security. 

The  sun  was  high  when  I  awoke  with  a  sense  of 
great  refreshment  and  recovery.  The  slit  of  sky  framed 


116  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

in  the  rift  was  not  yet  hot,  but  tenderly  blue  with  a 
color  of  promise.  The  fronds  of  fern  and  palm  stirred 
to  the  land  breeze.  I  went  down  to  my  surf  bath  and 
breakfast  with  an  almost  buoyant  step.  A  half-hour  after 
my  return,  when  I  turned  to  look  at  the  jungle  edge  a 
sight  greeted  me  which  demonstrated  the  decision  of 
the  natives  that  our  intercourse  was  not  so  soon  to  become 
a  closed  incident. 

This  time,  however,  their  coming  was  characterized 
by  a  more  gratifying  element  of  respect.  They  swarmed 
out  of  the  bush,  not  in  paltry  dozens  nor  scores,  but  in 
their  panoplied  hundreds.  Gorgeously  decked  chiefs- 
and  the  club-bearing  warriors  smeared  with  indigo  halted 
in  the  open,  leaving  a  satisfying  interval  between  their 
position  and  mine.  With  great  and  conspicuous  show  of 
peace  the  warriors  discarded  their  spears  and  shields 
and  raised  their  weaponless  hands  for  me  to  behold  as 
I  looked  down  from  my  high  place.  The  white-haired 
king  broke  a  spear,  gazing  up  at  me  the  while,  then 
dropping  the  pieces  knelt  and  bowed  his  slanting  forehead 
to  the  sands.  At  his  back  bent  the  priests,  trailing  their 
bright  feathers  in  the  dust.  No  one  could  misunder- 
stand their  pantomime.  Men  of  their  tribe  had  offended 
the  deities.  A  nation  had  come  in  humility  and  suppli- 
cation for  forgiveness. 

While  they  made  obeisance  in  relays  a  group  of  young 


I  FIND  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD  117 

men  approached  the  priests,  bearing  armfuls  of  orchids. 
The  king  and  priests  and  orchid-bearers  moved  forward 
for  a  few  steps  and  halted,  gazing  up  inquiringly  at  me. 
This  performance  was  several  times  repeated  before  I 
understood  that  they  were  seeking  my  consent  to 
approach  nearer.  Then  I  bowed  and  pointed  inward.  A 
rigorous  order  of  precedence  was  observed,  the  aged 
king  keeping  his  place  at  their  head  and  his  followers 
their  positions  of  relative  rank.  The  weight  of  his  years 
made  the  royal  steps  so  slow  that  the  colorful  pageant 
crept  like  an  army  of  snails. 

Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  me  that  if  I  were  to  be  a 
god  receiving  a  delegation  of  mortals,  I  should  receive 
it  in  some  suitable  degree  of  state.  They  were  sending 
to  me  the  mightiest  men  of  their  villages.  The  kinky 
head  of  their  king  was  abased.  Aged  Merlins  were 
coming  on  their  marrow  bones,  resplendently  trailing 
their  feathered  finery  along  the  white  and  flaring  sands. 
I  stood  awaiting  them  in  a  raveled,  mud-smeared  suit 
of  pajamas  which  at  their  best  had  never  been  ostenta- 
tious. The  thing  seemed  unfit.  Evidently  these  folk 
inclined  to  the  splendor  of  pomp.  Jeffersonian  sim- 
plicity would  be  lost  on  them.  Their  pageant  should 
be  met  with  pageantry.  There  had  been  some  who  had 
doubted  and  denied  me.  Of  a  surety  if  I  were  to  play 
this  nabob  from  the  skies;  if  I  were  to  turn  the  averted 


118  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

tragedy  into  a  screaming  and  cheerful  farce,  it  was  my 
duty  to  dress  the  part. 

With  a  signal  of  raised  hands,  I  signified  that  they 
were  to  await  my  reappearance.  Then  I  bowed  with 
profound  dignity,  and  stepping  from  their  view,  dis- 
appeared. 

A  few  minutes  later  I  emerged  from  my  cave,  a 
transmogrified  being.  I  was  no  longer  the  derelict  of 
rags  and  tatters.  Mine  was  the  opulent  splendor  of  a 
High  Mandarin  of  China.  About  my  fever-wasted  frame 
fell  and  flapped  the  gorgeous  folds  of  the  embroidered 
kimono.  In  my  hands  I  carried  a  violin  and  bow.  It  is 
true  I  was  unshaven,  and  through  holes  in  my  canvas 
shoes  protruded  eight  or  ten  toes,  but  what  mortal  can 
assume  to  criticise  such  eccentricities  as  may  be  the  part 
of  godhood? 

When  I  took  my  stand  once  more  on  my  pedestal  of 
mountain,  I  found  them  patiently  awaiting  the  nod  of 
deity.  The  sun  fell  resplendently  on  my  silver  storks 
and  gold  dragons  and  silk  poppies.  The  lessening  land 
breeze  fluttered  the  embroidery-crusted  folds  and  splin- 
tered light  from  my  person.  I  listened  with  satisfaction 
to  the  incoherent  sound  that  went  up  from  many  throats ; 
a  chorused  gasp  of  profound  awe  and  admiration  and 
wonderment. 

I  signaled  my  immortal  readiness  to  receive  them.    As 


I  FIXD  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD  119 

the  ludicrousness  of  the  farce  broke  over  me  I  had  to 
bite  back  unsolemn  roars  of  laughter.  A  spirit  of  deviltry 
and  vaudeville  possessed  me.  As  their  high  priests  in 
deadly  earnest  marched  on  all  fours  with  faces  as  rapt 
and  fanatically  sober  as  those  of  Mecca  pilgrims,  I  drew 
the  bow  across  the  catgut  and,  lifting  my  voice,  pro- 
claimed myself  in  ragtime. 

I  informed  them  in  the  words  which  were  new  only 
to  them  and  solemn  only  to  them  that  I  had  rings  on  my 
fingers  and  bells  on  my  toes,  and  as  I  sung  they  became 
hushed  with  awe  and  approached  with  a  deeply  moved 
sense  of  their  great  honor  and  responsibility. 

When  they  were  only  a  little  way  off,  I  went  down 
to  meet  them,  and  with  a  condescension  which  I  trusted 
would  not  injure  my  prestige,  lifted  the  aged  chieftain  to 
his  feet  and  permitted  him  to  walk.  He,  however, 
remained  deferentially  two  paces  in  my  rear.  It  was 
evident  from  their  straining  upward  gazes,  that  deeply 
as  they  were  moved  to  reverence  by  my  own  exalted 
spectacle,  there  was  some  greater  revelation  which  they 
awaited  above.  This  disquieted  me  since  I  had  in  reserve 
no  added  climax  to  offer.  I  had  given  them  a  display 
savoring  of  the  circus  but  I  had  no  grand  spectacle  to 
advertise  in  the  main  tent  after  the  regular  performance. 

When  we  had  reached  the  plateau,  however,  I  under- 
stood and  was  relieved.  To  me  they  had  come  kneeling, but 


120 


before  Her  portrait  they  threw  themselves  on  their  faces 
and  groveled.  They  sprinkled  sand  and  pebbles  upon 
their  hair  and  their  voices,  even  to  me  who  understood  no 
syllable,  carried  such  depth  of  humility  and  supplication 
as  filled  me  with  wonder. 

They  would  rise  from  their  suppliance  omy  iong 
enough  to  glance  at  the  face  of  the  picture,  then  fall  again 
and  renew  their  paroxysms  of  ungainly  prayer.  From 
the  hands  of  the  orchid-bearers  they  took  the  heaps  of 
blooms,  and  piled  them  at  a  distance  from  the  shrine.  The 
young  men  who  had  been  so  signally  honored  withdrew 
from  the  holy  of  holies.  Only  the  high  priests  and  the 
king  were  left  with  me  in  the  sacred  arena. 

For  a  time  I  stood  dumbly  looking  on,  then  the  idea 
percolated  into  my  confused  understanding.  I  realized 
that  at  best  I  was  only  a  demi-god,  perhaps  a  sort  of  super- 
high-priest,  but  no  god.  These  ambassadors  extraordi- 
nary had  come  not  to  me  but  to  The  Lady  of  the  Portrait. 

I  lifted  up  my  voice  for  attention,  and  from  their 
kneeling  postures  they  regarded  me  with  grave  reverence. 
I  took  my  place,  with  bowed  head,  before  the  portrait 
and  addressed  the  lady  in  tones  of  deep  solemnity.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  her  delicate  mouth  line  quivered  with 
amusement,  as  though  she  and  I  had  between  us  a  deli- 
cious secret. 

"  Frances !    Frances !    Frances !  "  I  declaimed  with  the 


Frances  !    Frances  !    Frances  !  "  I  declaimed  with  the  deep  profundity 
of    a    ritual. 


I  FIND  MYSELF  A  DEMI-GOD  121 

deep  profundity  of  a  ritual.  "  I  have  failed  totally  and 
signally  at  the  god  job.  There  is  in  all  this  world  of  sky 
and  sea  and  of  my  heart  but  one  deity.  It  was  you  who 
struck  down  with  a  thunderbolt  the  sacrilegious,  false 
priest.  It  was  you  who  saved  me  from  death  and  raised 
me  to  the  high  estate  of  your  vicegerent."  I  paused  and 
went  on  more  seriously :  "  It  is  you  whom  these  people 
worship  with  idolatry — and  of  them  all,  none  worships 
you  so  wholly  as  I,  your  priest !  "  And  though  I  was 
declaiming  before  a  lifeless  image  to  impress  ignorant 
cannibals,  I  meant  it.  When  I  had  finished  there  rose 
a  devout  murmur  from  the  blacks,  and  with  a  motion  to 
them  to  remain,  I  went  into  the  cave  and  came  out  again 
with  the  small  Japanese  burner  and  a  taper  of  incense. 
As  the  heavy  fragrance  of  the  burning  stuff  spread  itself 
upon  the  air,  their  wonder  grew. 

At  length  I  wheeled  and  pointed  back  to  the  jungle. 
Slowly,  reluctantly,  but  with  perfect  obedience,  the  wild 
bush  men  took  up  their  backward  journey  to  relate  the 
unbelievable  tale  of  their  reception. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PORT  AND  STARBOARD  LIGHTS 

THERE  are  men  whose  lives  develop  in  gradations 
of  gentle  growth.  Decade  merges  into  decade  by 
unstartling  evolution.  Variations  of  thread  and 
color  run  smoothly  into  the  life-pattern.  With  me  it  has 
been  otherwise.  The  constantly  recurring  dream  of  the 
portal  in  the  cliff  was  in  a  fashion  symbolical  of  my  life. 
The  dreamed-of  rescue  never  came  by  degrees,  but  by  the 
abrupt  opening  of  a  door  where  there  had  been  no  door 
before  and  by  the  sudden  changing  of  worlds  in  a  step 
across  the  threshold.  For  me  epoch  had  followed  epoch 
with  sudden  breaks  and  few  connecting  threads.  One 
day  I  was  a  bored  tourist  lounging  under  the  striped 
awnings  of  Shepheard's  Hotel.  The  next  day  found  me 
on  a  disreputable  ocean  tramp  bound  for  the  Ultima  Thule. 
That  voyage  had  ended  as  suddenly  as  it  began — with 
a  quick  curtain  of  unconsciousness  on  a  tableau  of  vio- 
lence. Mansfield,  too,  dropped  out  of  my  life  with  more 

122 


PORT  AND  STARBOARD  LIGHTS          123 

instant  suddenness  that  he  had  entered  it.  Now,  presto! 
with  the  sudden  trickeries  of  a  mountebank  the  sprite 
who  played  with  my  destinies  ushered  in  another  unpre- 
faced era.  Across  an  invisible  line  I  stepped  into  days 
of  luxury  and  prosperity. 

It  is  told  that  the  Inca  god-kings  breakfasted  each 
morning  on  fruit  fresh  plucked  from  growing-places  a 
hundred  miles  away.  In  a  horseless  land  relays  of  run- 
ners, each  dashing  his  appointed  distance,  saw  to  it  that  a 
perishable  dainty  outlived  its  journey  across  a  mountain 
range.  This  gives  a  key  to  my  mode  of  existence,  for 
several  months  following,  though  my  luxury  was  of  a 
lesser  scale.  In  those  months  I  mastered  some  vocabu- 
lary— and  in  so  crude  a  dialect  vocabulary  suffices.  I 
lacked  fluency,  of  course,  and  had  trouble  with  their  con- 
sonant-locked syllables  and  gutterals,  but  in  a  fashion  I 
could  talk.  Day  followed  day  with  a  monotony  of  ease. 
I  was  no  longer  satisfied  with  the  noisome  flesh  of  dis- 
gusting crabs,  and  gull  eggs  far  advanced  toward  the 
hatching.  Delicacies  of  fish  and  flesh  and  hitherto 
unheard-of  fruits  were  served  up  to  me  to  satiation.  My 
tattered  pajamas  gave  way  to  garments  of  cocoa-fiber  and 
feathered  finery  for  ceremonial  wear,.  The  necessity  of 
entering  into  the  lives  of  the  natives  brought  repulsive 
revelations  which  I  endured  as  best  I  could  since  if  I  were 
to  influence  them  I  must  proceed  with  a  nice  diplomacy. 


124  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

My  "  fluttered  folk  and  wild  "  could  not  be  hurriedly 
herded  into  new  folds.  Departing  spirits,  they  believed, 
followed  the  sun  into  the  west.  Gods  visited  mortals 
though  usually  in  invisible  forms  and  were  fond  of  the 
flesh  of  enemies  slain  in  battle.  Fetich  and  superstition 
took  a  hundred  phases.  Their  gusty  and  savage  minds 
were  childishly  susceptible  and  in  their  quickly  roused 
affections  they  were  as  demonstrative  as  collies.  I  began 
shortly  to  look  about  for  some  simple  miracle  wherein 
the  new  goddess  might  manifest  herself  as  a  deity  of 
benefaction  as  well  as  of  condign  punishment.  The 
opportunity  came  in  a  fashion  most  unexpected  and  the 
result  hardly  made  for  a  reform  of  enlightenment.  I 
was  told  that  there  dwelt  in  stilt-supported  villages  of 
grass  on  the  far  side  of  the  island  a  warlike  tribe,  with 
whom  my  people  were  hostile. 

My  folk  were  bushmen  and  dreaded  the  sea,  but  these 
enemies  were  salt-water  men,  who  could  with  axe  and  adz 
scoop  from  the  solid  tree  outrigger  canoes  and  who  were 
terrible  in  their  strength.  Their  king  was  lord  over  sev- 
eral villages  and  about  his  house  went  (this  they  told  me 
with  bated  breath)  a  row  of  many  round  stones,  and  each 
stone  stood  for  an  enemy  slain  and  eaten.  For  many 
seasons  there  had  been  peace,  but  one  day  there  arrived  at 
my  plateau  a  delegation  of  grief-torn  warriors.  A  small 
village  had  been  attacked  and  two  heads  taken  to  swell 


POET  AXD  STARBOARD  LIGHTS          125 

the  row  of  stones  around  the  canoe  house.  They  had  now 
come  to  propitiate  the  deity  bearing  fruits  and  exquisitely 
wrought  spears.  They  besought  the  forgiveness  of  my 
Gracious  Lady,  because  they  could  offer  no  enemies'  flesh 
— the  most  god-satisfying  of  sacrifices.  This  omission, 
however,  they  swore  to  remedy,  if  victory  were  permitted 
to  hover  over  them  in  fight.  Among  the  most  devout  of 
the  petitioners  was  Ra  Tuiki,  the  aged  chief  with  white 
hair.  They  urged  me  to  accompany  them  to  their  prin- 
cipal village  and  lay  the  hand  of  blessing  on  their  clubs 
and  spears. 

Through  dense  tangles  of  palm  and  fern,  mangrove 
and  moss  I  was  borne  in  a  rough  hammock  of  fiber. 
Great  soft-winged  butterflies  flapped  across  the  course  of 
our  march.  Brilliant  birds  fluttered  off,  twittering  and 
screaming.  I  should  have  preferred  walking,  but  my 
position  prohibited  it.  To  condescend  meant  to  become  a 
mere  man. 

In  their  squalid  villages  of  grass  hovels  I  found  filth 
and  the  excitement  of  battle  preparation.  It  was  my  first 
view  of  their  home  life — and  my  last.  I  was  taken  to 
the  house  of  a  chief  or  sub-king,  who  lay  mortally  hurt 
of  an  arrow  wound,  and  who  wished  to  have  the  blessing 
of  the  highest  priest  that  his  spirit  might  take  its  course 
honorably,  and  without  curse,  to  the  west.  He  lay  on  his 
mat  dying,  and  was  older  and  more  repulsive  to  the  eye 


126  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

than  Ra  Tuiki.  His  ears  had  been  stretched  by  many 
huge  ornaments,  and  the  cartilage  of  his  nose  was  torn 
and  ragged  where  the  chances  of  battle  had  pulled  out 
rings  and  spikes.  His  eager  eyes  gazed  up  at  me  out  of 
a  face  stiffened  and  set  with  elephantiasis,  and  by  his  mat 
lay,  unwrapped  from  their  fiber  coverings,  that  they 
might  comfort  his  passing  spirit,  two  excellently  pre- 
served negroid  heads.  I  shuddered,  but  I  laid  my  hand 
on  his  slanting  forehead — and  I  have  seen  men  die  with 
less  dignity. 

As  night  brought  the  closing  in  of  choking  jungle 
shadows,  a  half-dozen  red  fires  leaped  up  to  drive  their 
ribbons  of  red  flare  into  the  blackness.  They  wavered 
fitfully  and  grotesquely  upon  twisting,  leaping  bodies, 
which  were  paradoxically  preparing  for  the  ordeal  of  the 
morrow  by  hideous  orgies  and  dances  and  fatigue  and 
nerve  waste.  But  when  the  first  light  of  sunrise  attacked 
the  reek  of  dew  that  veiled  the  jungle,  while  the  dying 
fires  still  smouldered  into  gray  ash  and  my  throat  labored 
in  stifling  gasps  of  wet,  they  trailed  out  silently  into  the 
bush.  They  were  a  long  line  of  shadow  shapes  whose 
footfall  made  no  sound,  and  whose  pigmy  bodies  melted 
into  the  tangle  as  impalpably  as  the  dissipating  mists. 
My  bearers  carried  me  back  to  the  shore.  Two  days 
later  their  delegation  came  chattering  in  hysterical  delight 


PORT  AND  STARBOARD  LIGHTS          127 

and  bringing  in  native  triumph  the  head  of  the  king  who 
had  three  hundred  stones  about  his  house. 

About  this  time  I  instituted  an  important  policy.  By 
night  I  had  signal  fires  kept  burning  on  every  high  place 
along  the  coast.  I  disingenuously  told  my  people  that 
where  a  great  shrine  is,  there  must  also  be  at  nightfall 
mighty  banners  of  flame.  They  liked  the  idea.  Despite 
their  hideous  ferocity,  they  liked  everything  which  might 
have  appealed  to  the  imagination  of  a  child.  They  liked 
music,  they  liked  color.  The  greatest  privilege  that  their 
warriors  could  earn,  was  that  of  coming,  to  the  number 
of  a  dozen  at  a  time,  to  my  plateau  by  night  and  after  due 
reverence  of  squatting  for  hours  on  their  haunches,  while 
I  coaxed  from  the  violin  airs  from  opera  or  music  hall. 

On  the  point  above  us  blazed  one  of  our  signal  fires, 
and  between  the  reddened  crevices  of  rock  its  flare  struck 
down  and  yellowed  our  gathering.  The  portrait  would 
catch  the  light  and  leap  from  its  shadow.  Over  us  were 
the  stars.  In  a  circle  of  silent  absorption  sat  dark 
immovable  figures,  with  high  lights  gleaming,  here  and 
there,  on  the  mahogany  of  cheek-bone  or  forehead.  Some 
fantastic  painter  might  portray  these  gatherings  on  can- 
vas. He  would  need  a  bold  brush.  I  find  no  words  for 
its  description,  but  fantastic  it  was  and  strange.  Under 
the  fetich  of  the  starlight  I  would  find  myself  drifting 
away  into  realms  of  storied  romance  with  the  woman 


128  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

I  loved  and  had  not  seen.  Then  my  bow  would  all  uncon- 
sciously drift  into  love  songs.  I  would  find  myself  sing- 
ing— "  Ever  the  wide  world  over,  lass  " — and  oftentimes 
when  my  voice  rose  to  the  strain  I  could  fancy  that  She 
joined  me  in  its  singing.  Her  voice  sang  in  my  brain 
definitely  and  with  the  sweetness  of  the  beloved  and 
familiar.  I  had,  of  course,  never  heard  a  syllable  from 
her  lips,  and  yet  I  was  sure  that  could  I  hear  her  voice  in 
life  I  should  instantly  recognize  it,  though  blindfolded. 
I  thought  of  it  as  a  richly  sweet  contralto.  It  never 
for  a  moment  occurred  to  me  to  fancy  it  might  be  any- 
thing else. 

Once  for  a  week  the  sky  ceased  to  smile,  and  grew 
black.  The  jungle  was  lashed  and  stripped  with  hurri- 
canes and  on  several  occasions  the  earth  trembled.  The  sea 
pounded  our  porous  coast  and  boiled  into  a  tremendous 
tide.  I  knew  that  if  the  cyclonic  scope  was  general,  ships 
were  having  trouble,  but  in  that  thought  lurked  a  vague 
hope.  If  any  power  were  to  drive  a  vessel  to  my  rescue 
it  would  be  a  power  which  carried  sailors  out  of  their 
ordered  courses.  One  night,  some  six  months  after  the 
wreck  of  the  Wastrel,  when  the  skies  were  serene  again 
I  found  myself  more  than  ordinarily  adrift  on  the  tide  of 
imagination.  The  march  of  the  stars  showed  that  mid- 
night had  passed,  and  yet  the  natives  sat  unhurried,  and  I, 
as  unhurried  as  they,  was  still  absorbed  with  the  violin. 


POET  AND  STARBOARD  LIGHTS  129 

My  eyes  traveled  out  to  sea,  absently  and  without  rea- 
son. Suddenly  the  bow  stopped  half-way  across  the  strings 
with  a  rasping  gasp  of  the  catgut.  The  instrument  itself 
fell  from  my  hands  and  I  sat  rigid  and  staring  like  a  man 
suddenly  stricken.  The  other  eyes  followed  mine  and 
also  remained  riveted.  Leagues  away  over  the  phos- 
phorescent waste  of  water,  but  clear  and  unblinking, 
glowed  the  green  spot  of  a  ship's  starboard  light.  I  tried 
to  speak,  but  for  the  moment  my  grasp  on  their  dialect 
slipped  from  me  and  left  me  dumb.  I  was  trembling 
with  heart-bursting  excitement,  and  at  sight  of  my  emo- 
tion they  began  to  stir  uneasily  with  a  threat  of  panic. 

As  suddenly  as  it  had  left  me  my  self-possesion  re- 
turned. With  a  sweeping  gesture  I  pointed  to  the  myriad 
stars  that  gemmed  the  heavens  and  told  them  that  one 
of  these  had  come  down  to  the  sea,  bringing  other  demi- 
gods like  myself.  I  adjured  them  to  build  up  the  fires 
of  welcome  until  the  island  might  seem  a  mountain  of 
flame.  Their  strongest  men  must  feed,  as  never  fires  had 
before  been  fed,  and  all  others  must  go  to  their  huts  and 
await  the  morrow. 

Alone  on  my  plateau  I  saw  the  fires  leap  up  in  a  coast- 
wise line  of  beacons  that  dyed  the  night  vermilion.  The 
tiny  point  of  seaward  green  was  crawling  snail-like  on  the 
sea  and  at  last  my  gaze  was  rewarded  by  a  slender  flower- 
ing spray  of  rocket  fire,  followed  by  another  and  another. 


130  THE  POSTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Then  the  point  of  light  ceased  crawling  and  stood  still. 
I  let  my  head  fall  forward  in  my  palms  and  my  breath 
came  in  spasmodic  gasps. 

But  as  I  raised  my  eyes  they  fell  on  the  smiling  lips  of 
the  portrait.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Her  lips  and  eyes,  still 
gracious,  even  congratulatory,  held  a  touch  of  wistful 
sadness  which  had  not  been  there  before.  They  seemed 
such  lips  and  eyes  as  say,  "  Bon  voyage  and  farewell." 

The  glow  of  wine-like  exultation  died  in  my  arteries 
and  a  chill  settled  on  my  heart.  There,  in  the  world  of 
tangible  things  and  unrelenting  facts,  what  room  would 
there  be  for  such  a  companionship?  Was  this  strongest 
love  of  my  life  to  melt  into  nothing  now  that  I  no  longer 
needed  its  support?  Was  it  a  dream?  If  so  it  was  a 
dream  from  which  I  should  awake  to  an  empty  life.  No ! 
I  would  set  out  to  find  her  in  the  flesh.  I  halted  my 
reflections  with  a  start.  And  when  I  found  her — what? 
I  sat  there  in  the  midst  of  silences,  and  the  sweep  of 
essential  things.  About  me  lay  leagues  of  sea,  miles  of 
rock,  an  infinity  of  sky.  They  brooded  gigantically  over 
me  and  whispered  that  there  are  mysterious  influences 
greater  than  man's  cold  facts.  Man's  thought  became 
only  a  fluttering  stir  in  a  center  of  protoplasm.  I  was 
as  near  to  the  beginnings  of  things  as  to  the  present.  It 
was  as  easy  to  believe  in  the  love  of  souls  that  had  not 
met  as  in  other  matters. 


PORT  AND  STARBOARD  LIGHTS          131 

"  No — no !  "  I  cried  out,  bending  before  the  face, 
"  Whatever  it  be,  there  are  loves  great  enough  to  burn 
into  miracles.  This  is  not  the  first  time  I  have  loved  you 
— nor  the  last.  Through  aeons  of  reincarnation  a  love 
like  this  runs  on."  I  paused  awhile,  then  added,  with  an 
effort  to  smile.  "  Don't  you  remember  even  one  or  two 
former  lives,  dear  ? 

"  ' .     .     .     happy  we  lived  and  happy  we  loved 
And  happy  at  last  we  died ; 
And  deep  in  the  rift  of  a  Caradoc  drift 
We  slumbered  side  by  side. 
The  world  turned  on  in  the  lathe  of  time, 
The  hot  sands  heaved  amain, 
Till  we  caught  our  breath  from  the  womb  of  death 
And  crept  into  light  again.' " 

My  eyes  were  fixed  so  tensely  on  the  portrait  that  it 
grew  blurred.  Slowly  it  seemed  to  me  to  vanish  and  in 
its  place  stood  a  real  and  living  figure.  I  could  give  no 
detail  of  its  dress  or  coloring,  but  it  was  a  figure  of 
marvelous  beauty,  and  it  gazed  into  my  eyes  and  shook  its 
head.  Then  it  faded  and  I  was  looking  again  at  the 
portrait.  There  was  a  choke  in  my  throat,  and,  falling  to 
my  knees,  I  kissed  the  printed  lips. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ENTER   THE   INFANTRYMAN 

THE  morning  would  bring  by  rescuers  and  the 
breaking  up  of  housekeeping  in  my  cave.  I  had 
no  wish  that  profane  eyes  should  look  upon  the 
portrait  or  the  devout  worship  of  my  beloved  cannibals. 
Now  that  I  was  leaving  them  I  realized  that  they  were 
beloved.  In  my  memory  loomed  a  hundred  acts  of  simple 
courtesy.  The  portrait  I  took  down  from  its  shrined 
position;  the  Damascus  daggers  I  put  again  into  their 
places,  and  the  Mandarin's  kimono  I  folded  carefully 
into  a  package.  On  all  these  things,  as  on  the  era  for 
which  they  stood,  I  dropped  the  lid  of  the  mate's  chest. 

The  morning  came  on  brilliant  and  fresh  with  the 
cleansing  sweep  of  the  trades.  Sky  and  sea  sparkled  in 
a  diamond  clarity,  and  below  me  on  the  beach  patiently 
waited  the  dignitaries  of  my  tribe  in  festal  regalia. 
Since  this  was  our  parting,  I  too  came  out  decked  in  the 
finery  of  bird  plumage.  I  did  not  allow  them  to  climb 

132 


ENTER  THE  INFANTRYMEN  133 

to  the  now  empty  shrine,  but  led  them  down  with  me  to 
the  beach,  where  shortly  a  boat  came  bobbing  over  the 
water. 

A  queer  enough  spectacle  we  must  have  made,  like  a 
flock  of  blackbirds  patched  with  the  oriole's  vermilion 
and  the  cockatoo's  rose.  I  myself,  burned  out  of  my 
Caucasian  birthright,  differed  from  them  only  in  my  size. 

For  a  time  the  handful  of  white  men  on  the  boat 
hesitated  to  risk  the  chances  of  landing  and  being  kai- 
kai'd.  As  they  circled  at  a  distance  I  made  my  throat 
raw,  shouting  reassurances  in  English,  while  my  wonder- 
ing blacks  contemplated  with  deep  awe  this  talking  of  the 
gods. 

At  last  the  rescuers  rowed  in,  and  I  waded  out  waist 
deep  to  meet  them.  The  officer  in  command  was  a 
colossal  Scotchman  with  a  ruddy  face  and  an  honest 
mouth  as  stiffly  sober  as  though  it  had  never  yielded  to 
the  seduction  of  a  smile.  He  gave  me  a  detail  of  two 
kanakas  whose  brawny  arms  carried  down  the  chest  and 
its  contents. 

At  last  came  the  moment  I  had  dreaded.  I  must  break 
the  news  to  these  waiting  children  that  the  priests  from 
the  stars  had  not  come  to  bring  them  new  and  permanent 
wonders,  but  to  take  back  to  the  lands  of  mystery  their 
goddess  and  myself.  I  wished  then  for  a  full  knowl- 
edge of  their  tongue,  that  I  might  soften  the  tidings,  but 


134  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

I  could  not  bring  myself  to  the  mendacity  of  promising 
a  return,  though  they  pleaded.  When  it  came  to  parting 
with  Ra  Tuiki,  I  forgot  my  quasi-divinity  and  seized 
the  old  head-hunter's  hand  in  an  ungodlike,  Anglo-Saxon 
grip- 

Their  island  would  now  be  charted.  Missionaries 
would  come  to  them  with  teachings  of  a  new  faith,  but 
treading  on  their  heels  would  come  men  of  another  sort, 
and  as  I  thought  of  these  I  wished  that  we  might  be  able 
to  leave  the  place  unchronicled.  The  contract  trader 
would  soon  arrive,  supported  if  need  be  by  the  authority 
of  his  flag's  navy,  bringing  to  my  cannibals,  or  some  of 
them,  long  terms  of  peonage  under  hard  plantation 
masters. 

"  What,  if  I  may  ask,"  suggested  the  solemn-visaged 
Scot  at  the  helm,  when  the  bow  was  turned  outward  and 
the  boat  crew  was  bending  to  the  oars,  "  was  all  the 
demonstration  of  th'  niggers  ?  " 

"  They  were  saying  good-bye,"  I  explained,  "  We  came 
to  have  a  very  satisfactory  understanding." 

He  pondered  my  answer  for  a  time  in  sober  silence, 
then  dismissed  the  matter  with  a  single  observation. 

"  They  took  it  cruel  hard,  sir." 

Over  the  side  of  the  Gretchen  I  went  to  a  kindly 
reception.  I  told  all  of  my  story  that  I  wished  to  tell, 
admitting  that  I  had  posed  as  a  sort  of  demi-god,  but 


ENTER  THE  IXFAXTRYMEX  135 

breathing  no  hint  of  the  godship  which  was  over  my 
priesthood. 

A  week  of  hurricane  and  storm  had  tested  the  ship's 
endurance,  exhausted  the  crew,  and  driven  the  Gretchen 
into  unknown  waters. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  your  signal  fires,"  the  captain 
told  me,  "  we  might  have  gone  to  smash  on  the  outlying 
needles.  Your  lights  probably  saved  us  as  well  as  your- 
self." 

This  was  no  larger  ship  than  the  Wastrel,  but  when 
one  went  to  his  berth  at  night  it  was  with  confidence  that 
his  sleep  would  not  be  interrupted  by  the  sudden  necessity 
of  getting  up  to  die.  She  had  carried  a  cargo  of  trade 
stuffs  south  and  was  returning  to  Singapore  by  way  of 
Brisbane,  laden  with  copra  and  pearl  shell.  Her  direction 
lay  westerly  while  I  wished  to  go  east,  but  that  was 
secondary.  At  the  Australian  port,  I  could  reship. 
Indeed,  I  was  told  our  course  might  shortly  cross  that  of 
a  regular  line  of  steamers  between  Brisbane  and  Hono- 
lulu. For  a  few  days  it  was  satisfying  enough  to  pick 
up  the  lost  ends  of  the  world's  stale  news.  While  I  had 
been  marking  time  the  world  had  been  marching;  a 
hundred  paragraphs  had  been  lived  into  history. 

On  the  fourth  day  a  slender  thread  of  smoke  rose  over 
the  western  horizon  which  grew  into  a  clean-painted  and 
white-cabined  steamer.  As  the  gap  closed  white-clad 


136  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

men  and  even  women  stood  crisply  out  against  the  deck- 
rail.  Then  with  much  signaling  from  the  halyards  the 
two  vessels  had  converse  of  which  I  was  the  subject, 
and  I  with  my  chest  went  over  the  side  of  the  Gretchcn. 
I  told  the  steamer's  purser  as  much  of  my  story  as  I 
had  told  on  the  Gretchen,  and  when  that  evening  I  ap- 
peared at  the  captain's  table  transformed  by  bathing  in 
a  real  tub  and  submission  to  a  real  razor  in  the  hands  of 
a  real  barber,  it  was  to  find  that  my  story  had  traveled 
forward  and  aft. 

St.  Paul  was  a  very  good  man.  He  had  piety  and 
fervor,  but  also  in  a  superior  and  godly  fashion  he  was  a 
man  of  the  world.  Perhaps  he  gained  a  firmer  grip  on 
his  following  by  reason  of  his  ability  to  say  to  the  youth 
of  his  generation,  "  I  have  been  twice  stoned  and  thrice 
shipwrecked."  I  had  been  only  once  shipwrecked,  yet  a 
ready-made  audience  awaited  entertainment. 

It  was  on  the  second  afternoon  that  Captain  Keller 
appeared  in  the  smoke-room.  He  was  a  man  of  about 
my  own  build  and  almost  as  bronzed,  but  fair  haired  and 
his  carriage  proclaimed  the  soldier  before  he  introduced 
himself.  I  was  idly  enjoying  the  comfort  of  wicker 
chairs  and  windows  which  framed  white  decks  and  danc- 
ing seas.  The  few  other  occupants  of  the  place  were 
lounging  about  in  pongee  and  linen,  chatting  lazily  of 
those  things  which  make  talk  among  men  coming  out  of 


ENTER  THE  INFANTRYMEN  137 

the  East:  tribal  risings  in  Java,  the  late  race-meet  in 
Melbourne.  The  military-looking  young  man  dropped 
into  a  seat  at  my  table  and  signaled  to  the  spotless  Jap, 
who  officiated  as  smoking-room  steward. 

"  Left  you  alone  yesterday,"  he  began  by  way  of 
introduction.  "  I  saw  you  didn't  relish  being  treated 
like  the  newest  and  strangest  animal  in  captivity.  I 
guess  they're  accustomed  to  you  now.  What  will  you 
have?" 

"  Brandy  and  soda,"  I  decided ;  then  I  added,  "  Per- 
haps after  being  rescued  I  ought  to  make  myself  more 
volatile  and  amusing,  but  the  fact  is  I'm  readjusting. 
Did  you  ever  happen  to  spend  six  months  on  an  undis- 
covered, cannibal  island  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  and  laughed  with  a  pleasant  gleam 
of  strong,  regular  teeth. 

"  Then,"  I  assured  him,  "  you  don't  understand  the 
desire  to  sit  still  for  a  while.  You  don't  understand  the 
sheer  wonder  of  a  soft  chair,  white  woodwork  and  the 
regular  throb  of  engines  and  the  sight  of  white-skinned, 
white-clad  men  and  women.  Look  there."  I  held  out 
my  copper-colored  forearm. 

He  smiled  again  and  nodded.  "  I'm  going  back  to  the 
States,"  he  said,  "  after  three  years  in  the  Islands,  capped 
with  two  months  in  India  and  Australia.  I'm  Keller  of 
the  23rd  Infantry." 


138  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

He  paused,  then  went  on  in  a  matter-of-fact  way. 
"  I've  been  in  the  jungle  three  months  on  end.  I  know 
what  it  means.  This  is  my  second  term  of  Philippine 
service  and  it's  the  first  time  I've  gone  home  quite  sane. 
After  the  first  three  years  the  melancholia  had  me. 
When  the  transport  left  Manila,  and  I  thought  of  the 
three  weeks  before  I  could  see  the  Golden  Gate,  it  took 
three  good  huskies  to  keep  me  from  jumping  overboard. 
It  touches  one  here."  With  a  finger  at  the  temple,  he 
paused,  then  added  gravely :  "  And  I  know  some  fellows 
who  weren't  stopped  in  time.  One  must  readjust 
slowly." 

I  nodded,  puffing  with  a  sense  of  supreme  luxury  at 
the  Cairene  cigarette  he  had  offered  me,  and  listening  to 
the  tinkle  of  ice  in  my  tall  glass. 

There  were  some  days  of  almost  pure  creature  con- 
tentment and  as  we  sat  under  deck  awnings  or  burned 
cigars  in  the  smoking-room  our  acquaintanceship  ripened 
to  intimacy.  The  engines  with  their  muffled  throb  were 
churning  out  their  fifteen  knots  an  hour  and  the  timbers 
creaked  their  complaint  to  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  prow. 
Of  course  all  the  time  during  those  days  was  not  spent 
chatting  with  the  infantryman,  and  of  course  the  point 
of  intimate  confidence  was  not  at  once  established  between 
us.  Indeed,  I,  at  first,  let  him  do  the  talking,  and  though 
he  was  a  modest  man  he  had  much  to  tell.  But  in  the 


ENTER  THE  INFANTRYMEN  139 

hours  I  spent  alone  I  found  my  thoughts  revolving  about 
many  things  which  I  could  not  generally  share.  A  man 
may  admit  to  himself  without  shame  that  he  has  fallen 
in  love  with  a  woman  of  whose  very  existence  he  is 
uncertain,  but  he  hesitates  to  announce  it  to  another. 
Now,  although  the  picture  which  had  given  me  compan- 
ionship and  protection  was  packed  away  out  of  sight; 
though  I  was  no  longer  a  dweller  in  fantastic  surround- 
ings, I  still  had  that  presence  with  me.  Whenever  I 
closed  my  eyes  I  saw  again  the  smiling  lips  and  gracious 
eyes.  I  knew  that  I  was  henceforth  destined  to  scan 
all  faces  until  I  found  hers. 

So,  being  unable  to  discuss  matters  that  were  distract- 
ing me  I  found  need  of  an  outlet,  and  sought  it  in  trans- 
cribing this  diary.  Of  course  the  impulse  that  had  stirred 
me  on  the  island  to  write  down  my  emotions  each  day 
was  one  I  could  no  longer  gratify.  Now  I  must  do  the 
thing  in  retrospect  and  my  pen  would  lack  the  force 
which  an  impending  shadow  of  fatality  might  have  given 
it.  I  had  emerged  from  that  pall  only  to  pass  into  the 
shadow  of  something  quite  as  important.  I  was  dedicated 
to  a  quest.  When  I  found  Her  I  wished  to  have  the 
story  ready  to  present  in  as  convincing  a  form  as  possible. 
Sometimes  at  night  Keller  and  I  hung  elbow  to  elbow 
over  the  after-rail,  watching  the  broken  phosphorus  of 
the  wake. 


140  THE  PORTAL  OF  BREAMS 

We  were  standing  so  on  the  night  before  reaching 
Honolulu  where  Keller  was  to  spend  a  few  days  while  I 
made  immediate  connection  for  the  States.  He  was  tell- 
ing me  many  things  about  himself.  There  was  a  baby, 
born  after  he  had  left  God's  country,  now  old  enough 
to  chatter,  and  do  wonderful  things,  whom  he  was  to  see 
for  the  first  time  when  he  reached  'Frisco.  His  con- 
fidence invited  mine,  and  over  our  pipes,  I  told  him  the 
whole  and  true  story  of  my  experiences  and  of  how  an 
unknown  goddess  had  safeguarded  me. 

"  You  spoke  of  the  loneliness,"  I  said  at  the  end.  "  You 
know  now  why  it  didn't  slug  me  into  insanity." 

For  a  long  time  he  stood  musing  over  the  recital.  He 
had  seen  enough  of  life's  grotesqueries  to  understand  it. 
Finally  he  asked: 

"  Will  you  read  me  some  of  your  diary  ?" 

I  took  him  to  my  cabin  and  for  an  hour  he  listened 
while  I  read  the  hastily  scrawled  pages  that  I  had  set 
down.  Of  course  I  read  them  with  a  certain  diffidence 
because  it  had  occurred  to  me  that  certain  phases  might 
strike  a  man  living  in  civilization  as  the  vagaries  of  a 
brain  touched  with  sun  and  isolation.  Indeed,  I  was 
surreptitiously  watching  his  face  from  time  to  time  as  a 
man  might  watch  a  jury  box  when  he  is  on  trial  for 
lunacy,  but  I  was  reassured  to  find  there  no  politely 
veiled  judgment  against  my  sanity. 


ENTER  THE  INFANTRYMEN  141 

"  It's  decidedly  interesting,"  he  said  at  last,  "  though 
it's  one  of  the  things  we  would  rule  out  as  too  improbable 
to  believe  if  we  didn't  happen  to  know  it  was  true.  In 
the  first  place  I  have  been  reliably  informed  by  many 
expert  witnesses  that  the  South  Seas  have  long  since 
given  up  their  last  secrets  as  to  undiscovered  islands." 

"  I  was  also  convinced  of  that,"  I  admitted,  "  until 
I  was  cast  up  on  one.  I  am  now  prepared  to  believe 
there  are  many  others.  Whenever  I  live  six  months  in  a 
place  I  am  ready  to  admit  its  existence." 

He  refilled  and  lighted  his  pipe,  then  he  said,  "  I  don't 
want  to  invade  private  precincts,  but  after  hearing  that 
I'd  like  to  see  the  portrait.  May  I  ?  " 

I  delved  into  the  mate's  chest,  and  unwrapped  the 
newspaper  page. 

For  some  moments  he  gazed  at  it,  and  I  began  to 
wonder  whether  it  held  the  same  magic  infatuation  for 
every  one  else  that  it  did  for  me.  His  expression  was 
enigmatical  and  his  voice,  when  he  spoke  at  last,  was 
puzzled. 

"  It's  very  hackneyed,"  he  said,  "  but  we  must  go  on 
saying  it.  The  world  is  an  extremely  small  place." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  demanded. 

He  was  still  looking  at  the  picture  and  he  spoke  reflec- 
tively as  though  I  had  not  been  present. 

"  The  loveliest  girl  in  Dixie.     They  all  said  so." 


142  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

"  In  Dixie,"  I  echoed  eagerly,  "  Do  you  mean  you 
know  her  ?  " 

"  I've  danced  with  her  a  dozen  times,"  he  answered, 
"  and  yet  I  can't  say  I  know  her.  I  remember  that  all 
the  men  were  paying  court,  and  I  fancy  I  should  have 
been  smitten  like  the  rest  except  that  my  wife  had  just 
accepted  me,  and  I  had  only  one  pair  of  eyes." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  I  said  very  quietly,  "  let  me  have 
all  that  you  know  about  her — name — address." 

"  It  was  four  years  ago,"  he  explained.  "  We  were 
all  at  Bar  Harbor.  She  was  visiting  at  one  of  the 
cottages  there.  I  was  so  engrossed  with  my  own  court- 
ship that  other  girls,  even  this  wonderful  one,  didn't 
count  with  me.  I  don't  know  where  she  lived,  except 
that  she  was  from  the  South.  Her  name  was  Frances." 
He  broke  off  and  an  expression  of  extreme  vexation 
clouded  his  face. 

"  I  know  her  first  name,"  I  urged  him.  "  It's  the  sur- 
name I  need." 

"  Yes,"  he  responded,  "  of  course.  Her  surname 

was "  Again  he  halted  and  an  embarrassed  flush 

spread  over  his  cheeks  and  forehead.  Then  he  spoke 
impulsively.  "  You  must  bear  with  me.  It's  ludicrous, 
but  the  name  has  slipped  me.  It's  just  at  the  tip  of  my 
tongue,  yet  I  can't  call  it.  This  thing  is  inexcusable,  but 
ever  since  that  first  trip  to  the  Islands  I've  been  subject 


E:NTTER  THE  IOTANTBYMEN          143 

to  it.  Names  which  I  know  perfectly,  elude  me — some- 
times for  a  few  moments,  sometimes  for  weeks." 

"  Can't  you  remember  it,"  I  demanded  insistently,  "  if 
you  cudgel  your  brain  ?  I  don't  care  how  mercilessly  you 
cudgel  it.  I  must  know." 

He  nodded.  "  I  quite  understand.  It  has  slipped  me. 
I  shall  remember  it  by  morning,  but — "  his  voice 
became  graver. 

"  But  what  ?"     I  inquired. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late  to  help  you.  We  heard  just 
before  leaving  the  place  that  she  was  to  marry  some  man 
at  home.  It  hadn't  been  formally  announced,  but  I 
think  it  was  quite  definite." 

I  suppose  he  said  good-night  and  that  I  replied.  I 
don't  remember  his  leaving  the  stateroom.  I  recall 
standing  some  time  later  alone  on  the  deck  and  seeing 
a  white-clad  officer  tramping  the  bridge.  His  noiseless 
feet  seemed  to  be  treading  upon  me.  The  one  honey- 
moon couple  on  our  passenger-list  passed  and  halted  to 
comment  on  the  rare  quality  of  the  air  and  the  splendid 
softness  of  the  stars.  The  little  bride  laughed  delightedly. 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Deprayne,"  she  enthused,  "  it  was  under 
skies  like  this  that  Stevenson  wrote, 

" '  The  world  is  so  full  of  a  number  of  things, 
That  I  feel  we  should  all  be  as  happy  as  kings.' " 


144  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

I  smiled.  "  Yes,"  I  murmured,  "  a  number  of  things. 
Possibly  too  many  things." 

There  was  running  through  my  memory  a  passage 
from  the  diary  written  by  the  unknown  girl.  It  was  one 
of  those  passages  that  had  stuck  in  my  memory  through 
the  shipwreck  and  the  island  days,  a  note  of  optimism 
which  I  had  liked,  partly  because  it  was  rather  too 
imaginative  to  be  accepted  as  fact.  Now  it  mocked  me. 

"  It's  not  just  to-day's  wonderful  things  that  make  life 
fair,"  she  had  written,  "  but  it's  knowing  that  there  is  to 
be  a  to-morrow,  and  that  that  same  to-morrow  will  be 
lovelier  than  to-day.  I  know  (I  can't  say  why  unless 
it's  just  that  some  voice  keeps  singing  it  to  my  heart), 
that  some  day  he  will  come  walking  into  my  life  as  into 
a  place  where  he  has  the  right  to  be  and  our  lives  will' 
after  that  be  one  life.  That  is  the  to-morrow  I  am 
waiting  for." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  "ASH-TRASH  LADY" 

BUT  when  we  parted  at  Honolulu  the  name  was  still 
eluding  Keller's  memory  and  I  had  to  continue  on 
my  way  uninformed. 

I  was  at  first  all  for  breaking  my  journey  and  remain- 
ing with  him  until  some  flash  of  memory  should  bring 
back  the  one  word  I  needed,  but  he  pointed  out  to  me 
that  little  would  be  gained  by  this  course.  I  think  he 
was,  in  fact,  so  sensitive  as  to  the  mental  quirk  which 
had  survived  his  attack  that  the  idea  of  a  man's  shadow- 
ing him,  waiting  for  him  to  remember,  was  unwelcome 
and  would  have  taxed  his  self-respect.  I  felt  bound  to 
regard  his  whim,  inasmuch  as  he  promised  that  if  I 
would  wait  a  while,  two  or  three  weeks  at  the  most,  he 
would  arm  me  with  information.  Even  if  his  memory 
continued  to  play  truant,  a  word  with  his  wife,  when  he 
met  her,  would  set  him  straight,  and  he  would  at  once 
communicate  with  me. 

At  all  events,  as  we  shook  hands,  looking  out  across 
145 


146  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

the  sapphire  bay,  we  both  pretended  that  the  lapse  of  his 
memory  was  a  trivial  thing.  I  did  not  affect  indifference 
for  its  subject,  but  I  assured  him  that  inasmuch  as  I  had 
still  some  days  of  voyage  ahead  of  me  it  was  quite  prob- 
able that  the  name  might  come  to  his  memory  again 
before  I  landed  in  'Frisco,  and  I  made  him  promise  that 
if  such  was  the  case  he  would  cable  the  important  sur- 
name to  the  St.  Francis.  There  was  still  the  bare  chance. 
he  reminded  me,  that  the  rumored  engagement  had  not 
after  all  resulted  in  marriage.  He  fell  back  on  those 
adages  calculated  to  convey  last  hope  to  the  forlorn,  and 
since  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done  I  accepted  his 
lame  comfort  in  the  spirit  that  prompted  it.  Possibly 
now  that  I  had  before  me  the  prospect  of  learning  the 
identity  of  the  lady  I  really  welcomed  a  few  days  of 
uncertainty.  At  least  while  they  lasted  I  should  have  the 
shred  of  possible  hope  and  could  be  shaping  my  resolu- 
tion to  face  the  answer.  Long  after  one  has  told  himself 
that  there  is  no  longer  a  chance  of  hope  he  none  the  less 
clings  to  a  shred,  and  when  I  arrived  at  the  hotel  St. 
Francis  and  inquired  for  a  cablegram,  I  think  that  relief 
outweighed  disappointment  as  the  clerk  ran  through  the 
miscellaneous  sheaf  of  messages  and  shook  his  head.  "  I 
don't  find  anything,"  he  said,  and  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
I  felt  like  a  reprieved  man  who  still  faces  dreaded  news 
but  has  not  actually  received  it. 


THE  "ASH-TKASH  LADY"  147 

Before  that  breakfast  at  the  club  my  life  had  been 
merely  prefatory;  a  sum  of  dilute  emotions.  At  Har- 
vard I  had  taken  my  degree  and  won  my  "  H  "  on  the 
gridiron.  Since  then  I  had  gone  through  my  days  just 
missing  every  goal.  There  had  been  little  even  of 
innocuous  flirtation  and  nothing  of  grand  passion. 

I  had  tried  to  paint,  and  my  masters  discovered  prom- 
ise which  came  to  nothing.  I  adventured  into  the 
practise  of  law  and  went  briefless.  I  essayed  music 
without  distinction.  I  finally  decided  that  my  genius  was 
seeking  its  goal  along  mistaken  avenues.  It  should  be 
mine  to  move  men  and  women  to  smiles  and  tears  by  the 
magic  of  pen  and  ink  and  printed  word.  But  the  editors 
were  on  duty.  They  received  my  assaults  on  a  phalanx 
of  blue  pencils.  They  flung  me  back,  defeated  and 
unpublished. 

Perhaps  had  I  fallen  in  love,  it  might  have  been 
different.  Had  some  woman  kindled  the  sleeping  fires  in 
me  I  might  not  have  remained  an  extinct  volcano  of  a 
man.  Perhaps,  so  energized,  I  might  have  incited  juries 
to  tears — and  verdicts.  Possibly  I  might  have  stormed 
the  editorial  outposts  and  set  my  banner  of  manuscript 
at  the  forefront  of  literature.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  had 
heretofore  never  loved. 

Now  I  did.  Now  I  was  the  most  quaintly  tortured  of 
men;  wholly,  unqualifiedly  and  to  the  depths,  stirred 


148  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

by  the  worship  of  a  woman  I  had  never  seen.  Moreover 
she  was  probably  some  other  man's  wife  and  the  mother 
of  his  children. 

She  had  come  to  me  over  the  sea,  bringing  with  her  my 
destiny.  She  had  smiled  on  me  and  saved  me.  She 
had  taken  tribute  of  my  soul.  Now  it  was  ended.  I 
had  worshiped  her  among  crags  of  coral,  under  the  dome 
of  a  volcano.  I  had  come  to  think  of  her  as  a  splendid 
and  vivid  orchid  which  a  man  might  hope  to  wear  very 
proudly  at  the  heart  of  his  life.  To  what  end  had  the 
Fates  lured  me  into  this  cul-de-sac  ? 

I  made  the  rest  of  the  journey  in  a  fog  of  sullen 
misery,  and  emerged,  at  its  end,  from  the  Pennsylvania 
station  a  morose  and  hopeless  man.  As  a  taxicab  bore 
me  to  my  club  I  felt  a  tremendous  suspense.  Doubtless 
there  was  a  message  there.  If  Keller's  memory  had 
flashed  back  to  him,  as  memory  sometimes  does,  the 
name  in  which  I  was  so  vitally  interested,  information 
should  have  arrived  before  me  in  New  York.  Since  it 
had  not  intercepted  me  in  San  Francisco  I  judged  that 
the  blank  had  not,  up  to  that  time  been  filled.  Supposing 
that  he  had  remained  in  Hawaii  a  week,  he  would  have 
left  there  a  day  after  I  arrived  in  'Frisco,  and  then  for 
the  six  days  at  sea  I  should  hardly  expect  him  to  com- 
municate with  me.  But  I  had  stopped  two  days  in  the 
coast  city,  arranging  financial  affairs  by  telegraph,  since 


THE  "  ASH-TKASH  LADY ':  149 

I  had  landed  stripped  of  everything  but  my  chest  and 
my  borrowed  clothes. 

I  had  also  crossed  the  continent,  and  by  this  time  he 
should  also  have  arrived  in  the  States,  unless  his  sailing 
had  been  again  delayed.  Of  course  I  recognized  that  he 
had  many  things  close  to  his  own  heart,  but  this  service 
to  me  involved  only  the  asking  of  a  single  question, 
which  his  wife  could  answer  in  one  word.  I  was  sure 
that  he  would  not  prove  laggard  in  the  matter,  and  so  I 
braced  myself  at  the  door  of  the  Club  to  receive  tidings 
which  might  put  hope  to  death,  or  might  by  bare  possi- 
bility, give  it  new  life. 

And  yet  my  mail  held  only  the  accumulation  of  unim- 
portant things.  Old  advertisements  and  invitations  and 
bills,  many  of  which  had  come  while  I  was  out  there  at 
the  edge  of  things. 

Could  it  be,  I  asked  myself,  that  Keller  had  forgotten 
me,  too?  Had  it  been  possible  that  the  card  upon  which 
I  had  so  carefully  written  my  address  had  been  mis- 
placed? I  had  been  willing  to  put  off  the  moment  at 
San  Francisco.  Now  I  found  myself  eagerly  impatient 
for  the  answer. 

In  the  breakfast-room  I  encountered  the  doctor,  who 
was  dallying  over  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  morning  paper. 
He  glanced  up  and  for  a  moment  his  eyes  lingered. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  "  how  long  have  you  been  gone  ?  " 


150  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  Little  less  than  a  year." 

"  You  went  away  a  youngish  sort  of  man  and  you 
return  with  distinguished  white  temples."  He  sum- 
marized. "  There  must  be  a  story  locked  up  in  you." 

I  glanced  impatiently  at  the  card  and  called  for  eggs. 

"  I  haven't  been  nibbling  at  life  this  time,"  I  retorted 
with  some  touch  of  asperity. 

"  I  didn't  instruct  you  to  gluttonize,"  he  reminded  me. 

I  gave  him  only  a  partial  history.  Even  the  revisec 
version  of  my  adventures,  which  I  had  by  this  time 
learned  to  tell  glibly  enough  to  conceal  the  fact  that  I  was 
omitting  the  major  part,  was  sufficiently  beyond  the  rut 
of  things  to  beguile  a  half-hour  in  the  eventless  walls  of 
a  Manhattan  club.  But  my  table-companion  eyed  me 
with  his  customary  and  disquieting  sharpness,  and  finally 
fell  into  his  old  habit  of  diagnosis. 

"  Something  is  lying  heavily  on  your  mind,  Deprayne," 
he  announced,  "  and  its  not  merely  the  memory  of  can- 
nibals and  exposure.  Dangers  of  that  sort  become 
pleasant  reminiscences  when  we  view  them  through  the 
retrospective  end  of  the  glasses.  There's  something  else. 
What  is  it?" 

I  laughed  at  him  over  my  raised  coffee-cup.  This  was 
one  man  above  all  others  in  whom  I  should  not  confide 
the  facts.  He  would  promptly  have  prescribed  a  sana- 
torium. 


THE  "ASH-TRASH  LADY':  151 

"  Nonsense !  "  I  scoffed,  and  just  as  I  said  it  a  bell-boy 
arrived  at  the  table  with  a  telegram  on  a  small  silver 
tray. 

"  A  message  for  Mr.  Deprayne." 

I  was  totally  unable  to  control  the  violent  start  that 
caused  the  cup  to  drop  on  the  tablecloth  with  a  crash, 
and  doubtless  made  my  face  momentarily  pale.  My 
effort  at  regained  composure  did  not  escape  the  doctor. 
I  saw  his  eyes  narrow  and  heard  him  murmur,  "  Nerves. 
Shaken  nerves." 

I  took  the  telegram,  calmly  enough.  I  had  had  my 
moment  of  excitement  and  was  again  calm.  I  even  held 
the  missive  unopened  as  the  dining-room  boys  spread  a 
clean  napkin  over  the  coffee  stains.  Then  with  a  murmur 
of  apology  I  tore  the  end  and  drew  out  the  blank.  I 
don't  think  the  doctor  detected  the  disgust  of  perusal. 

"  Have  just  arrived  from  Florida.  If  in  town  call  and 
see  me.  Aunt  Sarah." 

Aunt  Sarah  was  one  of  those  disquieting  persons  who 
loathe  telephones  and  note-paper.  Her  city  messages 
came  by  wire  with  the  insistence  of  commands. 

The  end  was  that  the  doctor  decided  I  must  get  my 
mind  active,  and  after  vainly  trying  to  bully  me  back  into 
literary  effort  he  took  a  new  tack. 

"  Are  you  too  surly  and  apathetic  to  combine  a  small 
service  to  friends  with  the  augmenting  of  your  own 


152  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

fortunes  ? "  he  demanded,  and  before  I  could  reply  he 
fell  into  the  discussion  of  a  matter  which  just  now  lay 
at  the  front  of  his  interests.  There  was  a  Kentuckian  in 
town,  with  glowing  projects  for  fortune  reaping  along 
the  ridges  of  the  Cumberlands.  He  was  not  a  mere 
promoter,  but  a  man  of  large  means  and  ability,  who  was 
also  much  the  gentleman.  His  present  scheme  of  things 
required  the  enlistment  of  additional  capital,  and  he  had 
come  to  men  who  had  interested  the  doctor  as  well  as 
themselves.  The  Kentuckian  had  suggested,  however, 
that  before  committing  themselves  in  the  matter  they 
send  one  of  their  own  number  with  him  to  look  over  the 
options.  None  of  the  others,  as  it  happened,  could  go. 
Here,  declared  the  doctor,  was  my  opportunity  to  try  the 
novelty  of  useful  occupation. 

The  man,  whose  name  was  Weighborne,  was  to  lunch 
with  him.  Would  I  meet  him  and  talk  it  over,  and  if  I 
was  favorably  impressed  accompany  him  to  the  Kentucky 
mountains  ? 

We  were  sitting  by  a  Fifth  Avenue  window  as  he  out- 
lined the  matter  with  persuasiveness.  The  sky  was 
drear  with  the  ash  gray  of  autumn.  'Busses,  motors  and 
taxi's  were  trailing  along  in  the  same  old  hopeless 
monotony.  At  the  thought  of  remaining  here  I  sickened. 
Until  a  letter  or  message  could  arrive  from  Keller  I 
could  do  little,  and  this  trip  would  take  only  ten  days 


THE  "  ASH-TRASH  LADY  "  153 

or  two  weeks.  I  now  inferred  that  Keller  had  awaited 
the  next  steamer.  If  that  were  so  there  would  still  be 
the  six  days  at  sea.  At  all  events  Kentucky  is  on  the 
telegraph  lines.  His  word  could  follow  me  there  with- 
out loss  of  time.  Then  he  had  said,  "  the  loveliest  girl  in 
Dixie."  South  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  I  might  be 
closer  to  my  discoveries  when  the  name  arrived.  But 
above  all  that,  I  must  fill  in  the  time  of  waiting  with 
some  sort  of  action.  There  in  the  hills  I  should  at  least 
be  away  from  the  scenes  which,  in  the  few  hours  since 
my  return,  had  begun  to  spell  insufferable  ennui.  Yes, 
I  said  I  would  meet  Mr.  Weighborne.  Why  not  ? 

Having  promised  to  be  on  hand  at  two  o'clock,  I  began 
a  strange  quest  that  came  to  nothing.  In  Times  Square 
and  Park  Row  I  spent  several  dusty  hours  running 
through  newspaper  files,  and  going  back  to  dates  five  and 
six  years  old.  I  was  hunting  for  a  pictorial  section  of 
the  same  general  style  as  that  which  bore  the  portrait. 
I  found  one  or  two  printed  with  a  like  make-up  on 
similar  paper,  but  not  even  of  the  exact  size,  and  although 
I  followed  these  through  the  Sundays  of  several  years,  I 
came  in  the  end  only  to  the  conclusion  that  the  paper  had 
been  printed  outside  of  New  York. 

Weighborne  impressed  me.  In  physique  and  mind 
and  energy  he  was  big  and  virile.  One  could  glance  at 
him  in  his  carelessly  correct  clothes  and  know  that  he 


154  THE  POETAL  OF  DBEAMS 

would  be  equally  at  home  in  drawing-room  or  saddle. 
The  Kentuckian  had  to  cut  short  his  visit  with  us,  since 
he  was  leaving  the  same  day  for  the  South,  and  what 
talk  we  had  was  limited  in  its  scope.  Yet  his  personality 
charmed  me  and  compelled  admiration.  He  was  that 
type  of  man  who  escaped  the  preliminaries  with  which 
the  average  promoter  of  large  schemes  must  convince 
his  hearers.  His  own  bearing  and  breadth  carried  with 
it  an  assurance  of  trustworthiness  and  energy.  His 
steady  gray  eyes  had  a  compelling  and  purposeful  clarity, 
and  I  could  not  help  thinking  as  we  talked  what  such 
a  companionship  would  have  meant  in  those  other  days 
of  loneliness  and  danger.  Weighborne  was  the  sort  of 
fellow  one  would  like  to  have  at  his  back  in  difficulties. 
I  agreed  to  meet  him  in  Lexington  three  days  hence  and 
accompany  him  to  the  properties  which  he  hoped  to 
develop. 

There  was  a  minor  element  of  personal  risk,  he  warned 
me.  We  should  perhaps  encounter  the  dislike  of  certain 
men  who  were  of  the  feudist  type.  He  spoke  lightly  of 
this  feature,  but  as  a  matter  concerning  which  it  was 
only  the  part  of  fairness  to  inform  me. 

Later  in  the  day  while  glancing  over  the  papers  I 
came  upon  the  announcement  that  a  new  play  was  to 
have  its  premiere  that  evening  at  a  Broadway  house, 
and  in  the  name  of  the  author,  I  found  my  interest 


THE  "  ASH-TRASH  LADY  "  155 

piqued.  Bob  Maxwell  was  an  old  friend.  He  had  fought 
a  long  fight  for  success  and  had  found  the  goddess  cold 
and  offstanding.  We  had  been  fellows  in  literary 
aspiration,  and  he  had  been,  when  I  last  saw  him,  still 
floundering  for  support  in  the  unstable  waters  of  news- 
paperdom.  If  his  play  succeeded,  he  was  made.  I  tried 
vainly  to  reach  him  by  'phone,  and  went  that  evening  to 
the  theater  to  lend  my  applause. 

From  the  unpainted  side  of  the  stage-sets  I  listened  to 
the  salvoes  of  handclapping  that  were  waves  lifting  him 
to  success. 

When  at  last  the  ordeal  was  over  and  my  friend's 
triumph  assured,  he  led  me  along  the  whitewashed  walls 
to  the  star's  dressing  room.  In  response  to  his  rapping, 
the  door  opened  on  a  scene  of  confusion.  The  young 
woman  whom  the  coming  of  this  night  had  made  a  star 
turned  upon  us,  from  her  make-up  mirror,  a  triumphantly 
flushed  face. 

The  place  was  aglow  with  elation.  The  spirit  of  suc- 
cess showed  even  in  the  movements  of  the  quiet  little 
French  maid  as  she  gathered  and  stored  the  beribboned 
linen  which  still  littered  the  green-room.  Grace  Bristol 
herself  took  a  quick,  impulsive  step  forward  and  placed 
a  grateful  hand  on  each  of  the  author's  shoulders.  For 
me,  when  I  was  presented,  she  had  only  a  hurried  nod  of 
greeting. 


156  THE  FOETAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  Thank  God,  Bobby ! "  she  exclaimed  with  a  half- 
hysterical  catch  in  her  throat.  "  Thank  God,  it's  over. 
My  knees  were  knocking  so  while  I  was  waiting  for  my 
entrance  cue  that  I  wanted  to  run  away  and  hide." 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  I  was  watching  you.  You  were 
green  under  the  paint,  Grace." 

"  If  you'd  spoken  to  me  just  then,  I'd  have  screamed 
and  had  spasms,"  she  laughed,  "  but  now — "  she 
pointed  victoriously  to  a  maze  of  roses  on  her  dresser — 
"  there  are  the  flowers  that  glow  under  glass,  tra-la ! 
You  wrote  me  the  bulliest  part  I  ever  played,  old  pal. 
You  made  me  a  star."  I  had  come  to-night  simply  to 
congratulate.  I  had  known  something  of  my  friend's 
struggles  and  I  wished  to  be  among  those  who  were 
there  to  say  "  well  done."  My  own  thoughts  were  cours- 
ing in  channels  far  away  from  the  life  of  theaters  and 
green-rooms,  where  this  young  woman,  undeniably 
pretty,  beyond  doubt  talented,  was  enjoying  her  moment 
of  high  triumph.  In  her  delight  was  that  hysterical 
touch  which  stamps  moments  of  reaction.  She  had  been 
through  the  ordeal  of  a  "  first  night  "  and  now  she  knew 
that  the  experiment  was  successful.  Bobby  too  must 
have  had  the  same  exaltation,  though  his  masculine  nature 
did  not  break  so  frankly  into  emotion.  I  felt  that  I  was 
the  extra  person,  entirely  superfluous,  so  I  murmured 


THE  "  ASH-TEASH  LADY  "  157 

some  good-night  and  started  to  leave  the  place.  But  my 
friend  stopped  me. 

"  I  want  to  talk  with  you  later,  old  man,"  he  said,  and 
I  remained  to  be,  as  it  developed,  catapulted  into  a  new 
discovery. 

Bobby  helped  Miss  Bristol  into  her  coat  and  the  two  of 
us  gathered  up  as  many  of  the  flowers  as  we  could  carry 
and  made  our  way  with  her  through  the  stage-entrance 
and  out  into  the  street.  As  we  hailed  a  taxi'  at  the  curb, 
the  night  life  of  never-sleeping  places  was  racing  at  full 
tide  along  Broadway,  and  swirling  in  an  eddy  about 
Longacre  Square.  It  bore  on  its  crest  its  gay  flotillas  of 
pleasure — and  its  drift  of  derelicts.  To  me  it  pointed  all 
the  miserable  morals  of  contrast. 

"  Where  to  ?  "  inquired  Bobby.  "  Do  you  show  your- 
self in  triumph  at  Rector's  grill,  or  go  home  to  dream 
of  applauding  thousands  ?  " 

The  lady  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders. 

"  Me  for  the  hay ! "  she  announced  with  prompt 
decisiveness.  "  Jump  in,  boys,"  she  invited  in  after- 
thought. "  I  may  as  well  drive  you  down  to  your  rooms 
and  drop  you  first.  I  need  a  breath  of  air  to  quiet  my 
nerves." 

Out  of  the  garish  color  and  clangor  of  Broadway,  we 
swept  into  the  tempered  quiet  of  Fifth  Avenue,  stretch- 
ing ghostlike  between  the  twin  threads  of  electric  opals. 


158  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  We  must  both  be  pretty  tired,"  he  suggested  when 
Washington  Arch  loomed  ahead.  "  We  haven't  spoken 
since  Herald  Square." 

"  I'm  too  happy  to  talk,"  she  answered.  "  For  ten 
pretty  rough  years  I've  been  building  for  to-night."  She 
sighed  contentedly,  then  went  on,  "  I  began  about  the 
usual  way  .  .  .  musical  comedy  ...  in  tights  .  .  . 
carrying  a  spear.  My  first  promotion  was  to  the  front 
row.  I  wasn't  fool  enough  to  kid  myself  into  the  notion 
that  it  was  because  I  was  a  Melba  or  a  Fiske.  If  I  used 
to  go  to  my  hall  bedroom  every  night  and  cry  myself  to 
sleep  it  was  nobody's  business  but  my  own."  She  must 
have  felt  Maxwell's  eyes  on  her,  for  her  voice  took  on 
a  note  of  the  defiant  as  she  added,  "And  if  I  didn't  always 
go  straight  to  my  hall  bedroom,  maybe  that  was  my  own 
business  too."  She  seemed  to  be  reviewing  her  struggle 
as  she  leaned  restfully  back  against  the  cushions  with 
to-night's  roses  in  her  lap.  Her  lids  drooped  contentedly. 
"  But  to-night,"  she  added,  "  well,  to-night  I  felt  all  that 
was  paid  for  and  the  receipt  signed.  How  do  you  feel, 
Bobby?" 

"  Glad  it's  over,"  said  the  man.     "  I'm  tired." 

"  It  hasn't  been  just  exactly  a  snap  for  you  either," 
she  sympathetically  conceded.  "  When  I  first  knew  you, 
you  were  haunting  Park  Row  for  a  cheap  job,  and  get- 
ting canned  by  office  boys.  It's  been  a  long  way,  we've 


THE  "ASH-TRASH  LADY'3  159 

come,  boy,  but  we  kept  plugging  when  the  going  was  bad, 
and  now,  thank  God,  we've  arrived." 

The  taxi'  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the  house  where 
Maxwell  had  his  quarters.  It  was  a  dingy  building 
which  has  harbored  under  its  roof  the  beginnings  of  a 
half-dozen  literary  reputations. 

"  Bobby,"  said  the  young  woman  suddenly,  "  have  you 
any  Scotch  in  your  rooms  ?  " 

He  reflected. 

"  I  believe  there's  some  Bourbon  left  in  the  bottle," 
he  admitted. 

'  Twill  have  to  do,"  she  said  with  a  grimace.  "  I 
believe  I'll  climb  the  steps  and  have  a  highball.  We  ought 
to  toast  the  piece,  you  know.  It's  been  good  to  us." 

"  I  thought  you  were  too  tired,"  suggested  the  author 
in  surprise.  "  We  might  have  stopped  where  they  had 
champagne." 

"  I  didn't  want  wine.  But  I  need  a  quiet  little  chat  to 
work  off  this  nervousness." 

In  his  sitting-room  Bobby  announced,  "  I've  got  to 
pack.  I'm  leaving  in  the  morning.  Deprayne  will  enter- 
tain you  with  traveler's  tales." 

Miss  Bristol  paused  with  her  hands  raised  and  her 
hatpins  half  drawn.  Her  face,  for  a  moment,  clouded. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  Out  west  for  a  month  or  two." 


160  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

"  Oh,"  she  said  slowly.    "  What's  the  idea ?    Girl?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Rest,"  he  enlightened.     "  I'm  tired." 

The  smile  came  again  to  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  said.  "  Get  out  your  bag.  I'll 
help  you  pack  it." 

Maxwell  went  in  search  of  glasses  and  bottles. 

A  shaded  lamp  on  the  table  left  the  corners  of  the 
book-lined  walls  in  shadow.  In  the  open  fireplace  a 
bank  of  coals  glowed  redly.  The  young  woman  took  her 
place  before  it  on  the  Spanish-leather  cushions  of  a 
divan,  drawing  her  feet  under  her  and  nestling  snugly 
back  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head.  Her  lips 
were  parted  in  a  smile  and  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the  coals, 
were  deep  with  reflection.  The  face  became  again  the 
face  of  a  young  girl,  bearing  no  trace  of  the  experience 
which  had  made  up  ten  years  of  war  with  Broadway. 
To  me  she  paid  not  the  slighted  attention.  Shortly  he 
returned  and  handed  us  glasses.  She  raised  her's,  smil- 
ing. 

"  To  you,"  she  said—"  the  author!  " 

They  clinked  rims. 

"  To  you,"  he  gravely  responded, — "  the  star !  " 

After  that  neither  of  them  spoke,  until  the  girl  broke 
the  silence  with  a  laugh. 

"  Some  day,  Bobby"  she  asserted,  "  you  must  tell  me 


THE  "  ASH-TRASH  LADY  "  161 

the  story  you  haven't  dramatized — the  story  of  your 
life." 

"  Why  do  you  think  it  would  prove  interesting?" 

She  regarded  him  for  a  time  with  close  scrutiny. 

"  Well,  I  don't  quite  get  you,  Bobby.  You  are  rather 
a  riddle  in  a  way.  Sir  Galahad  on  Broadway — doesn't 
that  strike  you  as  a  funny  combination  ?  " 

"  Rather  paradoxical,"  he  admitted,  "  the  environment 
might  fit  Don  Juan  better.  But  why  Sir  Galahad  on 
Broadway  ?" 

"  That's  what  they  all  call  you.  You  are  notoriously 
unattainable.  The  only  man  in  this  game  who  hasn't  had 
an  affair  with  any  ash-trash." 

"  With  any  what?"  he  questioned,  puzzled. 

"  Ash-trash ;  actress,"  she  enlightened.  "  The  title  is 
a  little  conceit  of  my  own — poor  but  original.  You  know 
perfectly  well  that  Stella  Marcine  simply  threw  herself 
at  your  head  during  the  rehearsals.  And  she  told  me  that 
you  never  even  asked  her  out  to  supper." 

"  Why  should  I  ? " 

She  smiled. 

"  Everybody  else  does.  Most  men  marry  her,  at  one 
time  or  another." 

"  Oh." 

"  Of  course,"  she  went  on  thoughfully  after  a  pause, 


162  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  it's  very  charming  to  remain  naive  after  years  of  this 
life,  unless,  as  stage  gossip  says,  it's  merely  a  pose." 

"  It's  not  a  pose,"  replied  the  man  quietly. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him.  "  But 
what  I  want  to  know  is  this.  What's  behind  it?  Who 
is  she  ?  " 

"  Why  should  there  necessarily  be  any  She  ? "  he 
demanded.  "  Can't  a  man  live  his  own  life  independently 
of  prevalent  customs — 'merely  because  it  is  his  own  life?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  flecked  the  ash  from  her 
cigarette.  She  seemed  to  be  pondering  the  matter  before 
hazarding  judgment.  Then  her  words  came  positively 
enough. 

"  Don't  pull  that  old  line  on  me,  about  being  the 
captain  of  your  soul,  Bobby;  I  know  better.  .  .  .  Oh, 
T  used  to  believe  all  those  pretty  things.  I  wanted  to  go 
on  believing  them,  but  there  wasn't  a  chance." 

"What  did  you  find?" 

"  Just  what  the  fool  sailor  finds  who  has  the  idea  that 
he's  bigger  than  tides  and  gales;  who  fancies  he  can 
sail  his  little  duck-pond  boat  in  the  gulf  stream,  through 
reefs  and  hurricanes  and  bring  it  out  with  the  paint 
fresh."  Her  voice  had  perceptibly  hardened.  "  You 
probably  know  a  lot  of  girls,  Bobby,  who  wouldn't  invite 
me  to  tea — certainly  not  if  they  knew  all  my  story. 
Nevertheless  when  we  line  up  for  the  big  tryout,  I  guess 


THE  "ASH-TBASH  LADY"  161 

the  Almighty  will  take  a  look  at  their  untempted  inno- 
cence, and  a  glance  at  me — and  somehow  I'm  not  worried 
about  what  He'll  say.  No  woman  would  muddy  her 
shoes  if  we  all  had  Walter  Raleighs  to  spread  coats  over 
the  puddles." 

The  man  lighted  a  cigarette  and  said  nothing. 

"  But  get  the  angle  on  me  right,  Bobby,"  she  hastened 
to  amend.  "  I  haven't  loafed.  Now,  I've  made  good. 
From  this  on  I  can  be  the  captain  of  my  soul — and  you 
can  be  pretty  sure  I  will." 


CHAPTER  XV 

TWO  DISCOVERIES 

BOB  MAXWELL  was  standing  before  the  fire.  He 
turned  abstractedly  and  set  his  untouched  glass 
on  the  mantel  shelf. 

"  You've  got  a  grouch,  Bobby,"  lectured  the  young 
actress,  "  at  a  time  when  you  ought  to  be  all  puffed  up 
and  chesty.  Aren't  you  glad  we  made  good  in  the  same 
piece?  It  would  be  nice  of  you  to  say  so." 

He  turned  on  her  a  face  strangely  drawn  and  his  words 
came  swiftly  in  agitation. 

"  Triumph,  did  you  say  ?  Don't  you  know  that  it's 
only  when  you  get  the  thing  you've  worked  for,  that  you 
realize  it's  not  worth  working  for?  That's  not  triumph 
— it's  despair.  Triumph  means  laying  your  prize  at  some- 
body's feet — "  he  broke  off  with  a  sort  of  groan.  "  To 
hell  with  such  success ! "  he  burst  out  with  sudden 
bitterness.  "  To  hell  and  damnation  with  the  whole 
of  it!" 

For  a  long  while  the  girl  held  him  in  a  steady  scrutiny. 
164 


TWO  DISCOVEEIES  165 

They  had  both  forgotten  me,  silent  in  my  corner.  Her 
cheeks  paled  a  little,  and  when  finally  she  reiterated  her 
old  question,  her  steady  voice  betrayed  the  training  of 
strong  effort. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  " 

"  Listen,  Grace,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  to  talk  to  some  one. 
You  have  come  here,  so  you  let  yourself  in  for  it.  ... 
Ten  years  ago  I  was  reportinng  on  a  paper  for  a  few  dol- 
lars a  week.  It  was  a  long  way  from  Broadway.  There 
was  a  dusty  typewriter  and  dirty  walls  decorated  with  yel- 
lowed clippings — but  .  .  .  There  was  wild  young  ambi- 
tion and  all  of  life  ahead.  That  was  living." 

"  Who  was  she  ? "  insistently  repeated  the  actress, 
when  he  paused. 

"  What  can  it  matter  how  big  a  play  one  writes  " 
demanded  the  author,  "if  he  presents  it  to  an  empty 
house  ?  The  absence  of  one  woman  can  make  any  house 
empty  for  any  man.  I'd  give  it  all,  to  hear  her  say  once 
more — "  He  broke  off  in  abrupt  silence. 

"  To  hear  her  say  what,  Bobby  ? "  prompted  Grace 
Bristol,  softly. 

"  Well,"  he  answered  with  a  miserable  laugh,  "  some- 
thing she  used  to  say." 

"  I  suppose,  Bobby — "  the  girl  spoke  very  slowly,  and 
a  little  wistfully,  too — "  I  suppose  it  wouldn't  do  any  good 
to — to  hear  any  one  else  say  it  ?  " 


166  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  remember,  Grace,"  he  went  on,  "  the  other 
evening,  when  we  were  sitting  in  the  cafe  at  the  Lorillard 
and  the  orchestra  in  another  room  was  playing  '  Whis- 
pering Angels '  ?  The  hundred  noises  of  the  place 
almost  drowned  it  out,  yet  we  were  always  straining  our 
ears  to  catch  the  music — and  when  there  came  a  momen- 
tary lull,  it  would  swell  up  over  everything  else.  That's 
how  it  is  with  this — and  sometimes  it  swells  up  and 
slugs  one — simply  slugs  one,  that's  all."  He  broke  off 
and  laughed  again.  "  I  guess  I'm  talking  no  end  of  rot. 
You  probably  don't  understand." 

She  raised  her  face  and  spoke  with  dignity. 

"Why  don't  I  understand,  Bobby?  Because  I'm  a 
show-girl  ?  " 

My  old  friend's  voice  was  contrite  in  its  quick  apology. 

"  Forgive  me,  Grace — of  course  I  didn't  mean  that. 
You're  the  cleverest  woman  on  Broadway." 

She  laughed.  "  I'm  said  to  be  quite  an  emotional  ash- 
trash,"  she  responded. 

It  seemed  inconceivable  that  Maxwell  should  miss  the 
note  of  bitter  misery  in  her  voice;  yet,  blinded  by  his 
own  quarrel  with  Fate,  he  passed  into  the  next  room 
oblivious  of  all  else. 

She  crossed  to  the  table  which  lay  littered  with  the 
confusion  of  his  untidy  packing,  and  took  up  a  shirt 


TWO  DISCOVERIES  167 

that  he  had  left  tumbled.  She  carefully  folded  it,  then 
with  a  surreptitious  glance  over  her  shoulder  to  make 
sure  that  she  was  not  observed,  she  tore  a  rose  from  her 
belt  and,  holding  it  for  an  impulsive  moment  against  her 
breast,  dropped  it  into  the  bag.  My  face  was  averted, 
but  through  a  mirror  I  saw  the  pitiful  pantomime.  From 
the  table  she  turned  and  stood  gazing  off  through  his 
window,  with  her  face  averted.  From  my  seat  I  could 
also  catch  some  of  the  detail  that  the  window  framed. 
Below  stretched  Washington  Square,  almost  as  desolately 
empty  as  in  those  days  when,  instead  of  asphalt  and  trees 
and  fountain,  it  held  only  the  many  graves  of  the  pauper 
dead.  The  arch  at  the  Avenue  loomed  stark  and  white 
and  the  naked  branches  of  a  sycamore  were  like  skeleton 
fingers  against  the  garish  light  flung  from  an  arc  lamp. 
The  girl  had  thrown  up  the  sash  and  stood  drinking  in 
the  cold  air,  though  she  shivered  a  little,  and  forgetful 
of  my  presence  clenched  her  hands  at  her  back. 

From  the  bedroom,  to  which  Bobby  had  withdrawn, 
drifted  his  voice  in  the  melancholy  tune  and  words  of 
one  of  Lawrence  Hope's  lyrics : 

"  Less  than  the  dust  beneath  thy  chariot  wheels — " 

The  girl  at  the  window  turned  with  a  violent  start  and 
her  exclamation  broke  passionately  from  lips,  for  the 
moment  trembling. 


168  THE  POSTAL  OF  DREAMS 

"For  God's  sake,  Bobby,  don't!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  singing?"  demanded  his 
aggrieved  voice  from  beyond  the  door. 

She  forced  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  said  carelessly  enough,  "  only 
when  anybody  pulls  one  of  those  Indian  Love  Lyrics  on 
me,  I  pass." 

He  returned  a  moment  later  to  find  her  still  standing 
by  the  window.  At  last  she  turned  back  to  the  room  and 
took  up  her  hat.  She  lifted  it  to  her  head  as  though  it 
were  very  heavy,  and  her  arms  very  tired. 

"  I  guess,  Bobby,  I'll  be  running  along,"  she  announced. 

"  Grace,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  it's  good  to  know  that 
from  this  time  on  you  are  a  star." 

She  laughed. 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  answered.  "  I'm  a  real  ash-trash 
now.  No — don't  bother  to  see  me  down.  Mr.  Deprayne 
will  put  me  into  the  taxi'." 

Outside  the  threshold  she  paused  to  thrust  her  head 
back  into  the  room,  and  to  laugh  gaily  as  she  shouted  in 
the  slang  of  the  street : 

"Oh,  you  Galahad!" 

But  her  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears. 

As  I  climbed  the  creaking  stairs  again,  I  was  pondering 
the  question  of  contentment.  Here  were  three  of  us. 
One  had  raked  success  out  of  the  fire  of  failure  and  had 


TWO  DISCOVERIES  169 

written  what  promised  to  be  the  season's  dramatic  sensa- 
tion. One  had  earned  the  right  to  read  her  name,  nightly, 
in  Broadway's  incandescent  roster.  I  myself  had  been 
preserved  from  cannibal  flesh-pots.  All  of  us  were 
seemingly  brands  snatched  from  the  burning,  and  all  of 
us  were  deeply  miserable.  I  wondered  if  the  fourth  was 
happy;  the  woman  who  had  once  said  to  Maxwell  the 
things  he  now  vainly  longed  to  hear  ?  And  She — the  lady 
I  had  never  seen ;  what  of  her  ? 

I  found  the  author  gazing  off  with  a  far-away  rem- 
iniscence which  was  mostly  pain.  The  taxi'  was  whirring 
under  the  arch,  but  he  had  already  forgotten  it  and  its 
occupant. 

"  Do  you  want  to  unbosom  yourself,  Bobby?"  I  ques- 
tioned. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  To  you  ?  "  he  inquired  with  a  smile.  "  You're  a 
woman-hater." 

But  a  moment  later  he  came  over  and  laid  his  hand  af- 
fectionately on  my  shoulder,  fearing  he  had  offended  me. 

"  I  guess,  old  man,"  he  explained,  "  there's  no  balm  in 
post-mortems.  I  loved  her,  that's  all,  and  I  still  do  " 

"  She  married  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  She  is  now  Mrs.  William  Clay  Weighborne  ef~  ^ex- 
ington.  It's  a  prettier  name  than  Fanny  Maxwell,  and 
looks  better  on  a  check.  I  was  number  three,  that's  all." 


170  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

"Mrs.  Who?"  I  repeated,  in  astonishment.  "You 
don't  mean  the  wife  of  W.  C.  Weighborne  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly.  "  Is  the  gentleman  an 
acquaintance  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Since  this  morning,  yes.  He  is  even  a  business  asso- 
ciate." 

"  How  you  birds  of  a  financial  feather  do  flock  around 
the  same  pabulum,"  he  coolly  observed. 

"  I  was  rather  well  impressed  with  him,"  I  admitted 
idiotically  enough.  "  He  seemed  a  very  decent  sort  of 
chap." 

Maxwell  lighted  a  cigarette.  His  voice  was  a  trifle 
unenthusiastic  as  he  replied. 

"  So  I  am  informed." 

A  few  days  later  I  arrived  at  Lexington  and  Weigh- 
borne, who  met  me  at  the  station  with  his  car,  announced 
that  I  was  to  go  to  his  home  on  the  Frankfort  turnpike. 
But  at  this  arrangement  I  balked.  Despite  a  certain  curi- 
osity to  see  his  wife,  the  lady  who  had  left  such  a  mel- 
ancholy impress  on  the  heart  of  my  friend,  there  were 
considerations  which  outweighed  curiosity.  My  own 
peculiar  afflictions  bore  more  heavily  on  me  than  those 
of  my  acquaintances  and  I  had  no  yearning  for  the  effort 
of  socializing. 

So  Weighborne  protestingly  drove  me  to  the  Phoenix, 
and  armed  me  with  a  visitor's  card  to  the  Lexington 


TWO  DISCOVERIES  171 

Union  Club.  I  could  see  that  he  was  deeply  absorbed. 
His  mind  was  so  tensely  focused  on  coal  and  timber 
development  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  think  of  other 
matters.  My  apathy  lagged  at  the  prospect  of  following 
his  untiring  energy  over  hours  of  close  application  to 
detail.  I  would  put  it  off  until  to-morrow.  Yet  I  had 
hardly  taken  my  seat  at  table  in  the  dining-room  of  the 
Phoenix,  when  a  page  called  me  to  the  telephone  booth 
and  Weighborne's  voice  came  through  the  transmitter. 

"  Hullo,  old  man,  did  I  drag  you  away  from  food  ? 
Sorry,  but  there  are  some  papers  here  I'd  like  mighty 
well  to  have  you  look  over.  I  might  bring  them  in,  but 
if  you  don't  mind  running  out  it  would  be  better." 

Of  necessity  I  assented. 

"  I'll  have  my  chauffeur  call  for  you  at  8 : 30,"  he 
arranged,  "  and  meanwhile  I'll  be  getting  things  into 
shape  here.  By  the  way" — his  voice  took  on  a  reassur- 
ing note — "  you  sidestepped  my  rooftree  this  evening, 
and  I  gathered  that  you  were  not  in  the  mood  for  meet- 
ing people." 

I  murmured  some  insincere  assurance  to  the  contrary, 
which  did  not  beguile  him. 

"  We  shall  have  the  house  quite  to  ourselves,"  he  said. 
"  All  the  family  are  flitting  off  to  a  dance  at  the  Country 
Club." 

An  hour  later  his  car  turned  in  at  a  stone  gate,  and 


172 

up  a  long  maple-lined  avenue.  From  the  windows  of 
a  generously  broad,  colonial  mansion  came  a  cheery  blaze 
of  light,  throwing  shadows  outward  from  the  tall  white 
columns  at  the  front.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  Max- 
well's lodgings  in  Washington  Square,  and  reflecting  that, 
all  prejudice  aside,  the  flower  of  his  worship  had  not 
chosen  so  badly  in  transplanting  herself  here. 

Weighborne  met  me  at  the  entrance  of  a  hall  over 
which  hung  the  charm  of  ripe  old  portraits  and  wain- 
scoted walls.  Furnishings  of  unostentatious  elegance 
made  the  place  a  delight.  We  passed  into  a  large  library 
where  a  wide  hearth  dispensed  the  cheer  of  blazing  logs 
and  our  feet  sunk  deep  in  Persians  rugs. 

Yet  even  here,  although  instinctively  hospitable,  my 
host  was  plainly  immersed  in  thoughts  of  coal  and  timber, 
for  as  soon  as  he  had  done  the  honors  he  plunged  me 
into  a  litter  of  statistics. 

I,  poor  business  man  that  I  was,  had,  time  after  time, 
to  force  my  mind  back  from  its  undisciplined  straying. 
As  he  talked  of  coal  veins,  I  would  find  myself  thinking 
of  coral  reefs.  When  he  enlarged  upon  advances  in 
timber  tracts  I  would  be  seeing  in  my  memory  a  circle  of 
mahogany-skinned  pigmies  squatting  silently  about  a  por- 
trait spiked  to  a  sailor's  chest  with  a  pair  of  Damascus 
daggers. 

At  last  Weighborne  began  sorting  through  the  papers 


TWO  DISCOVEKIES  173 

for  some  misplaced  and  necessary  memorandum.  He 
crossed  the  room  to  a  desk  at  one  corner  which  he  found 
locked,  and  his  ejaculation  was  one  of  deep  annoy- 
ance. 

"  My  wife  has  locked  the  desk  and  Heaven  only  knows 
where  she  has  put  the  key,"  he  complained.  "  I'll  have 
to  call  the  Country  Club  and  ask  her." 

His  words  must  have  carried  to  the  next  room,  for  at 
once  a  voice  answered.  It  was  a  richly  musical  contralto, 
and  at  its  first  syllable  my  heart  stood  still,  and  the  room 
commenced  to  whirl  about  me.  I  had  never  heard  it  and 
yet  I  had  heard  it — singing  in  a  wilderness  of  coral  and 
orchids.  Surely  after  all  the  big,  little  doctor  was  right, 
I  was  becoming  a  lunatic. 

"  Billy,"  called  the  voice,  "  you  needn't  'phone.  I'm 
here.  I'll  unlock  it." 

My  host  turned  in  surprise  and  walked  over  to  the 
door. 

"  Hullo,  Frances !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Didn't  you  go  to 
the  Club?" 

"  I  had  a  headache,"  replied  the  voice.  "  I  sent  the 
others  off,  and  stayed  at  home.  I'll  come  in  just  a 
moment." 

I  stood  waiting,  my  pulses  pounding  turbulently.  Had 
my  host  not  been  just  then  dedicated  to  a  single  idea  he 
must  have  noticed  my  pallor  and  wondered  at  the  fas- 


174  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

cination  with  which  I  came  to  my  feet  and  stood  gazing 
at  the  door. 

And  as  I  gazed  she  appeared  on  the  threshold,  the 
blaze  from  the  logs  lighting  her  and  throwing  a  nimbus 
about  her  hair  of  gold  and  honey.  I  placed  both  my 
hands  on  the  top  of  the  table  and  braced  myself  as  a 
man  may  do  when  the  executioner  whispers  the  warning 
"ready!" 

She  might  have  stepped  from  the  picture  herself. 
Again  she  was  in  evening  dress,  which  clung  to  her  in 
soft  lines  of  unspeakable  grace.  At  her  throat  hung  a 
string  of  pearls — the  same  pearls — and  as  she  paused 
and  our  eyes  met,  I  could  have  sworn  that  her  muscles 
grew  momentarily  taut,  and  her  lips  twitched  in  a  gasp. 
She  put  out  one  hand  and  steadied  herself  against  the 
door  jamb;  then  with  the  gracious  recognition  of  a  half- 
smile  for  a  guest  not  yet  duly  presented,  she  went  over 
and  unlocked  the  desk. 

I  stood  looking  after  her.  I  was  conscious  of  a  numb- 
ness of  spirit — a  sickening  of  hopelessness.  The  question 
was  answered.  The  Frances  of  my  Island,  the  Frances 
of  Maxwell's  heartbreak,  the  Frances  who  had  married 
my  business  associate,  were,  by  a  monstrous  sequence  of 
hideous  circumstances  and  coincidence,  one  and  the  same. 
She  stood  ten  feet  and  twenty  sky  depths  away  from  me. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AN    INTERVIEW    AND    A    CRISIS 

AS  I  stood  there  all  immediate  things  were  appari- 
tions seen  vague  and  distorted  through  a  chaos 
of  wild  emotion.      I  had  assumed  that  for  an 
experimenter  in  the  unexpected  I  could  qualify  as  tried 
and  seasoned.    Now  it  seemed  that  all  prior  assaults  upon 
my  equanimity  had  been  mere  kindergarten  exercises  in 
control. 

Weighborne,  still  too  self-absorbed  to  see  that  worlds 
were  crumbling  in  his  library,  turned  suddenly  to  us 
with  an  apologetic  laugh. 

"  Frances,"  he  said,  "  forgive  me,  I  entirely  forgot  to 
present  our  guest."  Even  then  he  did  not  present  me, 
but  turned  to  me  to  add,  "  We've  talked  of  you  so  much 
here,  Mr.  Deprayne,  that  I  had  overlooked  the  fact  that 
introductions  were  in  order.  I'm  the  unfortunate  type  of 
one  idea  at  a  time.  After  all,  I  hope  you'll  feel  that,  hav- 
ing crossed  the  threshold  you  are  one  of  us,  and  that 
further  formalities  may  be  dispensed  with."  Then  as 

175 


176  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

I  bowed,  somewhat  incoherently  mumbling  my  acknowl- 
edgments, he  turned  his  back  upon  the  room  and  busied 
himself  again  with  the  rubbish  that  claimed  his  interest 
at  the  desk. 

I  wanted  to  leap  for  his  throat.  I,  who  had  presented 
her  as  a  goddess  to  a  people  under  skies  that  rose  from 
the  ocean  and  dipped  again  to  the  ocean,  needed  no  pres- 
entation. The  casual  fashion  of  his  amenities  was  in 
itself  an  affront. 

Of  course  all  this  was  insanely  unfair  to  my  host,  and 
even  while  my  thoughts  seethed  in  this  unamiable  vortex 
— so  strong  is  the  grip  of  artificial  conventions — I  was 
attempting  to  smile  with  the  agreeable  inanity  of  a  draw- 
ing-room smirk. 

But  as  she  stood  there  I  could  read  in  her  face  also  the 
record  of  the  strange  agitation  that  had  evidenced  itself 
at  the  door.  Her  spirit  too  was  in  equinox.  The  lips  I 
knew  so  well,  though  only  in  one  expression,  were  now 
grave  and  a  little  drawn,  and  her  eyes  held  a  wild 
questioning,  as  though  my  coming  brought  a  startling 
riddle. 

In  a  moment  she  was  again  the  perfectly  poised  mis- 
tress of  herself.  She  came  over  and  offered  her  hand 
and  as  I  took  it  she  met  my  eyes  smiling,  though  she  must 
have  read  in  them  the  rising  hunger  of  a  man  for  a 
woman — a  hunger  which  in  me  was  so  poignant  that  my 


177 

soul  was  the  soul  of  a  wolf.  The  touch  of  her  fingers 
electrified  me  and  the  tremor  of  my  own  hand,  before  I 
withdrew  it,  must  have  telegraphed  whatever  my  pupils 
failed  to  mirror. 

That  wordless  message  told  her  how  my  sanity  reeled 
on  the  brink  of  seizing  her  and  holding  her  in  wild 
defiance  of  this  man,  across  the  room,  whose  name  she 
bore. 

"  I  won't  interrupt  business,"  she  was  saying  with  per- 
fect serenity.  "  But  later  I  hope  to  see  you  again." 

I  bowed.  "  I  hope  so,"  I  answered  politely,  while  a 
wave  of  anger  swept  me. 

She  would  not  interrupt !  She  who  had  snapped  all  the 
thread  of  life  and  let  my  soul  go  plunging  down  the 
abysses. 

She  would  not  interrupt ! 

The  grandfather  clock  against  the  wall  stood  at  nine 
twenty-four.  At  nine  twenty  I  had  been  stolidly  puffing 
one  of  Weighborne's  Havanas  and  listening  to  his  dis- 
quisitions on  courts  of  appeals  decisions  and  squatters' 
rights.  The  cigar  which  I  had  dropped  on  an  ash- 
tray at  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  still  held  its  ash 
and  sent  up  a  thin  spiral  of  smoke.  It  had  outlived 
me. 

My  host  plunged  afresh  into  his  papers.  He  might  as 
well  have  been  reading  me  ukases  from  the  Romonoff 


178  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Czar  in  the  undiluted  Russian.  But  as  the  clock  ticked 
off  the  half-hour  I  seemed  to  freeze  out  of  the  eruptive 
and  into  the  glacial  stage.  I  felt  my  lips  drawing  into  a 
stiff  smile.  I  even  contrived  to  nod  my  head  in  sedulous 
and  ape-like  agreement  when  he  raised  interrogative  eyes 
to  mine.  So  rapidly  had  my  volcanic  lava  of  spirit  hard- 
ened to  clinkers  that  when  the  telephone  called  him  to  a 
barn,  where  some  accident  had  befallen  a  thoroughbred 
colt,  I  was  able  to  turn  a  conventionally  masklike  counte- 
nance on  Frances,  who  came  to  chat  with  me  till  his 
return.  She  sat  in  a  great  leather  chair,  and  I,  standing 
on  the  hearth,  looked  down  on  her,  braced  for  whatever 
might  develop.  I  was  resolved  to  make  amends  for  my 
self -revelation  of  a  half-hour  ago;  I  should  at  least  prove 
myself  the  capable  mummer;  yet  I  found  that  I  was  fet- 
tered by  an  unaccustomed  silence. 

There  was  only  one  topic  on  which  I  could  find  words 
for  talk  with  this  woman  and  that  topic  was  forbidden. 
She,  too,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  seemed  ham- 
pered by  a  diffidence  which  her  bearing  told  me  was 
foreign  to  her  normal  nature.  So,  for  a  while,  our  con- 
versation lagged  and  faltered  and  fell  into  fitful  frag- 
ments and  puerile  tatters,  while  my  gaze  devoured  her. 
There  was  no  flaw  in  the  perfection  of  her  beauty  from 
the  coils  of  her  amber  and  honey  hair  to  the  white  satin 
toe  of  her  small  slipper.  I  had  given  opulent  scope  to 


AN  INTERVIEW  AND  A  CRISIS  179 

my  painter's  fancy  in  those  island  days  and  had  imagined 
her,  in  the  color  of  life,  as  a  being  expressed  in  the  souls 
of  orchids.  Now  I  realized,  with  a  terrible  yearning,  that 
I  had  not  done  her  justice. 

Step  by  step  I  went  back  over  the  record  of  the  last 
year  and  found  it  painfully  distinct  and  clear.  I  had, 
with  my  imagination  built  a  house  of  cards  which  had 
tottered.  I  had  been  lonely  and  morbid  and  had  pre- 
tended a  picture  was  a  woman.  It  had  come  to  mean  a 
great  deal — clay  idols  have  come  to  mean  immortal  gods 
to  poor  creatures  who  have  had  no  better  deities.  I  had 
told  myself  that  the  finger  of  Destiny  had  traced  through 
my  life  a  thread  of  gold  linking  my  life  to  hers.  After 
all  it  had  been  nothing  more  than  a  series  of  inconceiv- 
able coincidences.  I  had  no  more  part  in  her  cosmos  than 
in  that  of  any  woman  whose  photograph  I  might  have 
admired  in  a  miscellaneous  collection.  It  behooved  me 
to  scourge  out  of  my  brain  the  mischievous  chimeras  I 
had  harbored  there.  As  for  her  momentary  excitement — 
the  something  vague  and  deep  and  disturbed  in  her  pupils 
as  she  stood  at  the  door  and  later  when  we  touched 
hands;  that  was  only  the  psychic  realization  that  this 
guest  of  her  husband  was  staring  at  her  out  of  insanely 
wild  eyes. 

I  started  to  speak,  then  halted,  perplexed  over  a  ridicu- 
lous point.  How  should  I  address  her  ?  On  the  island  I 


180  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

had  called  her  Frances,  and  now  I  could  no  more  compel 
my  rebellious  tongue  to  frame  the  title  "Mrs.  Weigh- 
borne  "  than  I  could  have  forced  it  to  utter  an  epithet. 
So  I  said  nothing  at  all. 

"You  are  a  great  traveler,  aren't  you,  Mr. 
Deprayne  ?  "  she  suggested  when  the  silence  had  begun  to 
be  oppressive. 

I  had  always  been  accounted  a  talkative  man.  One 
could  read  in  her  face  that  she  had  the  wit  to  sparkle 
in  conversation  like  champagne  in  cut  glass,  yet  under  the 
constraint  that  had  settled  over  us,  we  labored  as  plati- 
tudinously  as  a  knickerbockered  boy  and  a  school-girl 
entertaining  her  first  caller. 

"  I  have  traveled  a  little,"  I  answered. 

"  And  encountered  unusual  adventures  ?  " 

"  No — just  traveled." 

"  Billy  says,"  she  went  on  as  graciously  as  though  I 
had  not  rebuffed  every  conversational  advance,  "  that 
you  were  shipwrecked  in  the  south  seas  and  wounded 
by  savages." 

"  Billy !  "  My  bruised  consciousness  flinched  under 
the  familiarity  of  the  title  and  I  fell  back  upon  shameless 
churlishness. 

"  A  nigger  stuck  me  with  a  spear,"  I  admitted 
shortly. 

She  glanced  quickly  up  with  perplexity.      Her  eyes 


"You  are  a  great  traveler,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Deprayne ?  "  she  suggested 
when  the   silence   had   begun  to  be   oppressive. 


AN  INTEEVIEW  AND  A  CEISIS  181 

seemed  to  read  that  I  was  not  at  heart  a  boor  and 
her  graciousness  remained  impervious  to  my  ruffian- 
ism. 

"  I  wish,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  would  tell  me  about 
it,  or  are  you  one  of  the  men  who  tell  women  only  empty 
and  pretty  things  ?  " 

There  was  a  vagrant  hint  of  wistfulness  in  the  tone 
of  the  question.  I  wondered  if  she  had  been  fed,  like 
the  girl  of  our  diary,  too  much  on  sweetmeats,  and  wanted 
a  more  nutritious  fare. 

"  It  wouldn't  interest  you,"  I  apologized,  melting  at 
once  to  penitence.  Then  for  a  moment  came  a  wild 
up-sweep  of  emotion.  It  was  one  of  those  impulses  which 
master  men  and,  when  the  trend  is  violent,  make  the  eyes 
swim  with  blood  and  the  hand  rise  to  murder.  With  me 
it  swept  to  sentiment,  and  carried  me  uncontrollably 
in  its  undertow. 

"  I  wish,"  I  said  with  an  intensity  which  must  have 
carried  a  note  of  wildness,  "  I  wish  to  God  I  were  back 
on  that  island  now !  " 

The  perplexed  questioning  of  her  eyes  steadied  me 
again  into  self-command. 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,"  I  said  with  a  disingenuous 
laugh.  "  It's  the  call  of  the  wild." 

"  Perhaps  I  understand  something  of  that  call,"  was 
her  enigmatical  reply. 


182  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

I  wondered.  Could  she  understand?  This  woman 
with  the  perfect  drawing-room  poise;  this  creature  of 
exquisite  art?  Even  if  I  were  absolutely  free  to  tell 
her  the  whole  story,  from  Suez  to  the  Golden  Gate,  how 
much  and  how  little  would  it  mean  to  her?  Could  she 
comprehend  a  passion  fired  with  no  touch  of  the  phys- 
ical, painted  horizon-wide  against  a  canvas  of  cobalt  sky  ? 
Perhaps  not,  but  I  wished  as  I  had  never  wished  any 
other  thing  that  I  might  have  been  privileged  to  learn. 

Her  personality,  even  in  silence,  wove  an  aura  of  subtle 
magic  about  her.  She  wore  at  her  breast  several  hot- 
house orchids.  They  were  pale  and  exotic,  quick  wilting 
and  artificial.  Already  the  edges  of  their  petals  were 
curling  and  darkening.  Was  she  like  them?  Could  she 
have  carried  her  splendid  shoulders  with  the  same  grace 
through  jungles  and  over  mountains?  Could  she  bloom 
with  the  wild  splendor  of  those  other  orchids  in  the 
sterner  environment  of  God's  great  out-of-doors  ? 

She  smiled  as  she  questioned  me. 

"  You  are  sceptical  of  my  power  to  understand  things, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"  I  was  wondering,"  I  answered,  "  just  what  you  meant 
by  it." 

"  I  meant,"  she  said  slowly,  as  her  eyes  clouded  again 
with  that  wistfulness  which  had  a  few  moments  before 
cost  me  my  self-control,  "that  civilized  women  lead 


AN  INTERVIEW  AND  A  CRISIS  183 

even  narrower  lives  than  civilized  men.  Maybe  they  feel 
even  more  strongly  than  men  the  longing  for  wider,  freer 
things." 

"  But  in  these  times,"  I  inanely  suggested,  struggling 
to  maintain  the  pretense  of  conversation,  "  woman  has 
a  full  measure  of  liberty." 

She  tossed  her  head  with  an  airy  contempt  for  my 
reasoning  and  bent  her  eyes  for  a  moment  on  the  tip  of 
her  satin  slipper.  "  About  as  much  as  a  canary  in  a  cage," 
she  announced,  "  and  we  are  expected  to  sing  joyously 
for  our  cuttle  bone  and  hemp  seed.  I  wonder  that  it 
never  seems  to  occur  to  you  men  that  we  women  may 
want  something  more  than  that ;  that  we  may  not  be  sat- 
isfied after  all  to  hear  affectionate  things  chirped  through 
the  cage  wires — that  even  human  canaries  may  be  able 
to  conceive  of  some  horizon  broader  than  a  window-sill 
with  a  pot  or  two  of  geraniums  to  give  it  color." 

I  loved  this  woman.  Why  in  all  conscience  did  my 
heart  leap  almost  triumphantly  at  the  hint  that  she  was 
restive  in  captivity?  Was  it  merely  because  it  was  not  I 
who  was  her  captor?  Was  it  jealousy  feeding  on  the 
crumbs  of  a  misery  shared  ?  There  was  a  long  silence. 

She  had  been  toying  as  she  talked  with  a  slender  gold 
chain,  and  under  an  involuntary  emphasis  of  her  fingers 
it  had  given  way.  She  was  now  trying  to  close  the  broken 
link  with  her  teeth.  I  stepped  forward  and,  without  real- 


184  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

izing  that  I  was  doing  it,  caught  her  hand  in  my  restrain- 
ing fingers.  She  looked  up  quickly. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said  hastily,  "  but  don't  bite 
that  with  your  teeth." 

"  If  I  bite  it  at  all,"  she  replied  with  impervious  logic, 
"  I  must  bite  it  with  my  teeth." 

I  took  it  from  her  and  began  the  simple  work  of  repair. 
The  contact  of  my  fingers  had  left  me  vibrating,  and  as 
I  bent  my  face  over  the  chain,  my  hands  were  trembling. 

"  Why,"  she  demanded  in  a  soft  voice,  leaning  back  and 
clasping  her  hands  behind  her  head,  "  won't  you  tell  me 
the  story  of  your  island  ? "  Into  the  question  crept  a 
teasing  note  of  whimsical  insistence. 

"  Because,"  I  answered,  "  there  is  a  part  of  it  which  I 
couldn't  tell  you — and  without  that  there  is  nothing  to 
tell." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  some  other  time  when  you  know  me 
better?"  she  inquired  as  naively  as  a  little  girl,  pleading 
for  a  favorite  fairy  tale. 

At  every  turn  she  flashed  a  new  angle  of  herself  to 
view.  At  one  moment  she  was  impressively  regal,  at  the 
next  an  appealing,  coaxing  child ;  at  one  instant  her  eyes 
hinted  at  heart-hunger  and  at  the  next  her  lips  knew  no 
curves  but  those  of  laughter. 

And  yet  there  was  a  thing  about  it  all  that  hurt  and 
disappointed  me.  With  nothing  tangible,  there  was  still, 


185 

in  a  subtle  way,  much  which  was  sheer  coquetry  of  eye 
and  lip.  It  was  invitation.  Why  did  she  challenge  me 
to  forbidden  things  so  easy  to  say,  so  impossible  to  unsay? 
She  must  know  that  from  the  moment  I  saw  her  I  had 
stood  at  a  crisis;  and  that  this  was  true  only  because 
I  loved  her.  Such  things  need  no  words  for  their 
telling. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  denied  the  privilege  of  know- 
ing you  better,"  I  said  slowly,  "I  leave  for  the  moun- 
tains to-morrow  morning." 

"  You  won't  be  there  forever,"  she  retorted,  "  sha'n't 
we  see  you  on  the  return  trip  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  I  must  hurry  back  East." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  answered  with  sweet  graciousness. 
Any  woman  in  the  country  houses  about  her  would 
probably  have  spoken  in  the  same  fashion,  but  to  me  it 
was  a  match  touched  to  powder. 

"  I  will  quote  you  a  parable,"  I  said,  and  although  I 
attempted  to  smile,  that  the  speech  might  be  taken  lightly, 
I  had  that  rigid  feeling  about  the  lips  and  brow  which 
made  me  conscious  that  my  face  was  drawn  and  tell- 
tale. 

"  Icarus  was  the  original  bird-man,  and  he  came  to 
grief.  His  wings  were  fastened  on  with  wax,  but  they 
worked  fairly  well  until  he  soared  too  close  to  the  sun. 


186  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Then  they  melted  .  .  .  and  the  first  aviation  dis- 
aster was  chronicled." 

She  looked  at  me  frankly  and  level-eyed,  but  her  face 
held  only  mystification. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "  you  must  construe  the 
parable." 

I  shook  my  head  gravely.  "  I'm  glad  you  don't  take 
its  meaning." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  repeated,  yet  we  both  felt 
that  we  were  standing  in  the  presence  of  dammed-up 
emotions  which  might  at  any  moment  break  over  and 
inundate  us.  She  might  yet  have  no  realization  of  it, 
but  I  knew  by  an  occult  assurance,  in  no  way  related 
to  egotism,  that  I  could  make  her  love  me.  My  fable 
was  false  after  all.  I  had  already  fallen  and  been  broken ; 
my  pinions  were  trailing  and  blood-stained.  There  \vas 
yet  time  to  save  her.  During  our  silence  Weighborne 
opened  the  door  and  our  interview  was  ended. 

It  had  lasted  a  few  minutes,  yet  during  their  contin- 
uance I  had  been  several  times  perilously  near  the  brink. 
I  saw  her  rise  and  smile  and  leave  the  room,  and  I 
caught  or  fancied  I  caught  a  glance  from  her  eyes  and 
a  miraculous  curve  of  her  lips  at  the  threshold.  The 
expression  was  subtle  and  challenging,  seeming  to  say 
to  me,  "  You  will  tell  me  many  things  before  I  am 
.through  with  you."  Of  course,  that,  too,  was  my  dis- 


AX  INTERVIEW  AND  A  CRISIS  187 

ordered  imagination,  yet  for  the  moment  it  was  as  though 
she  had  actually  spoken  words  of  self-confidence  and 
conquest.  And  I  knew  that  if  I  saw  her  again  I  should 
say  many  things — forbidden  things.  Resentment  and 
bitterness  and  utter  heartache  possessed  me,  and  I  heard 
my  host's  voice  in  a  maddeningly  matter-of-fact  pitch  as 
he  commented,  "  Now  I  hope  our  interruptions  are  over." 
As  I  went  to  my  room  at  the  hotel  that  night  a  tele- 
gram was  handed  me.  I  did  not  at  once  open  it.  I  pre- 
sumed that  it  was  from  Keller,  and  it  was  all  of  a  piece 
with  my  grotesque  ill  luck  that  the  answer  should  come 
just  after  I  had  myself  in  the  most  painful  possible  way 
solved  the  problem.  In  my  room,  however,  I  read,  under 
a  San  Francisco  date,  "  Name  Weighborne,  not  Carring- 
ton.  Keller."  It  was  evidently  a  telegraphic  mistake 
and  should  have  read  "Weighborne  nee  Carrington." 
Keller  had  told  me  who  she  had  been  before  she  married 
Weighborne,  the  man  whose  name,  in  the  words  of  my 
fellow  unfortunate,  Bobby  Maxwell,  "  looked  well  on  a 
check." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WE   GO  TO  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

WEIGHBORNE  was  at  the  station  on  the  follow- 
ing morning  when,  five  minutes  before  train 
time,  I  arrived.  He  was  clad  for  his  mountain 
environment  in  high  lace  boots,  corduroy  breeches  and 
flannel  shirt,  and  in  this  guise  he  loomed  bigger  and 
stronger  of  seeming  than  in  conventional  clothing.  His 
level,  straight-gazing  eyes  held  the  cheery  satisfaction  of 
facing,  after  a  good  breakfast,  a  prospect  of  action.  He 
was  meanwhile  willing  to  fill  the  interim  of  railroad  travel 
with  conversation.  I,  on  the  contrary,  knew  that  sleep- 
lessness had  left  me  haggard,  and  met  his  advances,  I 
fear,  with  churlish  taciturnity. 

In  the  smoking  compartment,  when  we  were  under 
way,  I  sat  gazing  out  of  the  car  window  at  fleeting  fields 
still  a-sparkle  with  frost  crystals  on  wood  and  stubble. 

"  You  and  Frances  didn't  just  seem  to  hit  it  off," 
commented  my  companion  with  a  proffer  of  his  cigar- 
case,  "or  rather  Frances  liked  you  all  right,  but  you — 

188 


WE  GO  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  189 

He  broke  off  with  an  amused  smile  and  busied  himself 
with  the  kindling  of  a  panatella. 

A  man  can  hardly  explain  to  his  fellow-man,  "  I  was 
rude  to  your  wife  because  I  love  her.  I  worship  her  in 
a  way  your  prosaic  little  soul  can  never  understand.  It 
is  only  because  civilization  is  all  distorted  that  I  don't 
murder  you  and  carry  her  off  in  triumph  to  my  cave — 
where  she  belongs." 

So  I  mumbled  some  foolish  contradiction.  I  thought 
her  charming;  I  was  merely  not  a  woman's  man.  I 
was  still  part  savage.  My  unfortunate  temperament 
must  be  my  apology. 

Weighborne  studied  me  for  a  moment  in  some  per- 
plexity. He  knew  I  was  lying,  but  he  had  no  suspicion 
why  I  lied  and  he  could  hardly  argue  in  her  defense  with 
me,  a  stranger.  He  changed  the  topic,  but  there  was  a 
hurt  expression  in  his  face  as  though  he  were  unable  to 
understand  my  subtle  hostility,  as  he  construed  it,  for  a 
person  entirely  lovely.  If  I  did  not  like  Frances  there 
must  be  something  abnormal  about  me,  and  the  expres- 
sion was  quite  eloquent  though  wordless.  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  reading  it.  It  was  as  though  he  wanted  to 
say  to  me  and  was  saying  to  himself,  "  After  all,  our 
relations  are  those  of  business,  and  your  personal  prefer- 
ences and  prejudices  do  not  concern  me,  but  we  won't 
speak  of  Her  again.  It  shall  be  a  prohibited  topic  between 


190  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

us."  In  this  tacit  attitude  I  found  an  element  of  relief. 
If  I  were  to  be  forced  into  his  daily  companionship  I 
must  not  be  specifically  reminded  at  every  turn  that  he 
was  the  husband  of  his  wife.  I  had  stepped  knee-deep 
into  this  miserable  Rubicon  of  financial  venture  as  the 
agent  of  others,  and  turning  back  was  impossible.  After- 
ward. .  .  .  But  at  this  point  I  stopped.  I  could  not  yet 
bring  myself  to  think  of  any  afterward. 

Inasmuch  as  Weighborne  and  I  were  for  a  time  to 
travel  the  same  trail  and  since,  as  my  reason  insisted,  he 
was  guilty  of  no  injury  to  me  except  an  injury  so  fan- 
tastic that  only  destiny  could  be  blamed,  and  since,  too, 
he  was  all  unconscious  even  of  that,  there  must  be  truce 
between  us. 

Yet  there  rose  insistently  before  me  the  lissom  beauty 
of  his  wife.  The  light  that  tangled  itself  in  her  hair 
blinded  and  tortured  me. 

The  deity  I  had  built  out  of  fancy  and  under  the 
influence  of  the  tropics,  laid  itself  in  parallel  with  the 
woman  I  had  seen  last  night.  The  goddess  I  knew.  The 
woman  I  loved  and  doubted.  Was  she  only  the  coquette 
who  wanted  to  lead  me  chained  at  her  chariot  wheel  for 
the  cheap  joy  of  conquest?  My  goddess  had  not  been 
that  sort.  What  had  she  to  offer  me  in  return  for  such 
a  tribute  to  her  vanity?  Was  I  merely  to  flit  in  the 
background  of  her  life  giving  all  that  the  heart  has, 


WE  GO  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  191 

receiving  nothing  but  the  occasional  condescension  of  a 
smile?  Does  great  beauty  so  preempt  a  woman's  soul 
as  to  drive  out  even  the  homely  virtues? 

These  questions  bored  insistently  into  my  brain  until 
it  ached  with  perplexity.  Then  came  the  memory  of 
her  momentary  wistfulness;  her  craving  for  something 
more  than  life  had  given  her,  or  something  different 

What  was  that?  At  all  events,  I  knew  that  to  fall 
again  within  the  scope  of  her  personality  would  mean  to 
be  swept  rudderless  from  my  moorings.  Whatever  her 
object,  be  it  exalted  or  petty,  I  must  inevitably  bow  to  it, 
in  unconditional  surrender,  if  such  were  her  good  or  evil 
pleasure.  Consequently  the  one  end  of  all  my  thinking 
was  the  resolve  that  I  should  not  again  see  her. 

The  journey  was  progressing  with  more  surety  than 
my  reflections.  It  whisked  us  through  the  richness  of 
Bluegrass  pasture  lands,  and  the  opulent  ease  of  Blue- 
grass  life  into  a  barer  country  where  the  color  of  the  soil 
grew  mean  and  outcropping  rocks  lay  bare.  The  land- 
scape, as  though  in  keeping  with  my  mood,  dropped  down 
a  scale  of  bleakness. 

The  cleanliness  of  dignified  mansions,  spacious  barns 
and  whitewashed  fences  gave  place  to  less  pretentious 
farm-houses  in  disrepair,  and  these  in  turn  dwindled  to 
log  cabins  that  were  hardly  better  than  shanties,  and 
choking  undergrowth  instead  of  clean  meadows. 


192  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

We  roared  through  foothills  where  the  vivid  green  of 
young  cedars  dashed  the  gray  tangle  of  naked  timber 
and  scrub.  At  last  we  climbed  into  the  mountains  them- 
selves, lying  in  dreary  ramparts  of  isolation  under  skies 
that  had  grown  sodden  and  raw.  Here  were  the  barriers 
of  the  Cumberland  heaping  up  gigantic  piles  of  ragged- 
ness  under  bristling  needle  points  of  timber. 

We  passed  through  anomalous  villages  where  the 
nation's  most  primitive  and  quarantined  life  was  rubbing 
shoulders  with  the  outriders  of  capital's  invasion. 
Shaggy  men  ridden  in  from  distant  cabins  on  shaggier 
horses;  men  who  probably  nursed  guilty  knowledge  of 
illicit  stills,  gazed  at  the  passing  train  out  of  humorless 
and  illiterate  eyes. 

At  last  we  left  the  train  at  a  station  over  which  the 
November  dusk  was  closing,  where  the  coke  furnaces 
glared  in  red  spots  along  the  shadowed  ridges.  A  four- 
mile  drive  brought  us  to  the  tawdry  hotel,  and  after 
attacking  our  eggs  and  ham  we  went  to  our  rooms.  I 
on  a  feather  bed,  with  the  reek  of  a  low-turned  lamp  in 
my  nostrils,  lay  for  hours  gazing  at  the  patched  and  dirty 
wall-paper,  and  at  last  fell  asleep  to  dream  of  a  wonder- 
ful lady  who  opened  a  door  in  a  wall  of  rock,  and  led 
me  through  it  to  things  which  could  never  be. 

The  next  morning  as  we  waited  for  the  wagon  which 
was  to  take  us  twenty  miles  into  the  hills,  Weighborne 


WE  GO  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS 

showed  me  the  dingy  court-house  whose  weatherbeaten 
walls  had  in  other  days  been  penetrated  by  the  gatling 
guns  of  the  militia.  He  pointed  out  boyish-looking 
figures  whose  eyes  were  young  and  mild,  yet  who  had 
more  than  once  "notched  their  guns."  He  showed  me 
spots  where  this  marked  man  or  that  had  fallen,  shot  to 
death  from  the  court-house  windows,  by  assassins  who 
had  never  been  apprehended  or  prosecuted. 

"  That  is  all  changing,"  he  said.  "  When  capital  comes 
the  feud  must  go." 

Stolid  groups  of  mountaineers,  clad  in  butternut  and 
jeans,  eyed  us  with  mild  curiosity.  Here  and  there  a 
father  whose  face  was  as  stupid  and  uneducated  as 
that  of  a  Russian  peasant,  walked  side  by  side  with  a 
son  dressed  in  the  season's  ready-made  styles.  Between 
parent  and  child  yawned  the  gulf  of  schooling,  which 
the  younger  generation  had  acquired  in  a  college  "  down 
below"  or  in  the  new  schools  at  home,  presided  over  by 
"  fetched  on"  teachers. 

We  traveled  at  snail's  pace  over  twisting  roads  where 
our  wagon  strained  and  creaked  in  tortuous  ruts  almost 
hub-deep,  and  where  the  scraggly  horses  lay  against 
their  collars  and  tugged  valiantly  at  the  traces.  Quail 
started  up  before  us  with  their  whir  of  softly  drumming 
wings  and  disappeared  into  the  thick  cover  of  timber. 
Squirrels  barked  and  scampered  to  hiding  at  our  coming. 


194  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Occasionally  a  fox  whisked  out  of  sight  with  a  con- 
temptuous flirt  of  its  brush.  Once  only  in  twenty  miles 
we  encountered  another  traveler.  An  old  man,  riding 
bareback  on  a  mule,  drew  up  in  the  road  and  awaited 
us.  Despite  the  cold,  a  gap  of  sockless,  dust-covered 
ankle  showed  between  his  rough  brogan  uppers  and  the 
wrinkled  legs  of  his  butternut  breeches.  Across  his 
mule's  withers  balanced  a  rifle.  His  face  was  bearded 
and  sad. 

"  Mornin'  Rat-Ankle,"  drawled  our  driver,  halting  the 
team  for  converse. 

"  Mornin',  Pate,"  came  the  nasal  reply. 

There  was  a  long  interval  of  silence  while  the  mounted 
man  contemplated  us  with  an  unabashed  stare.  Finally 
he  spoke  again. 

"  Mornin',  strangers,"  he  said. 

There  followed  a  protracted  series  of  questionings 
between  the  native  born  as  to  the  health  and  well  being 
of  their  respective  families. 

I  thought  I  saw  the  mountaineer's  eyes  glitter  with 
sudden  interest  when  Weighborne's  name  was  given  him, 
but  the  light  died  quickly  out  of  his  pupils,  leaving  only 
the  weariness  and  sadness  of  his  dull  life. 

At  times  the  climbs  were  so  steep  that  we  had  to 
trudge  alongside,  lending  a  hand  at  the  wheels.  The  last 
two  miles  of  the  journey,  said  our  driver,  would  be 


WE  GO  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  195 

impassable  for  a  wheeled  vehicle.  He  would  have  to 
deposit  us  and  our  luggage  at  Chicken-Gizzard  Creek.  A 
little  later,  while  we  were  walking  up  a  steep  incline, 
Weighborne  drew  me  back  out  of  earshot  of  the  teamster. 

"  I'd  better  post  you  on  a  few  details,"  he  said.  "  Ever 
hear  of  the  Keithley  assassination  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  Keithley  was  the  prosecuting  attorney  in  some  rather 
celebrated  murder  trials.  He  was  shot  to  death  one  after- 
noon as  he  came  out  of  the  court-room." 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  questioned. 

"  Six  months  later  Con  Hoover  was  shot  from  the 
laurel  on  this  road.  He  had  allied  himself  with  those 
who  sought  to  avenge  Keithley." 

I  nodded  my  head. 

"  There  were  Cale  Springer,  Bud  Dode — I  could  enu- 
merate other  victims,  but  that  is  all  unnecessary  detail. 
What  concerns  us  is  this.  Jim  Garvin  is  county  judge. 
In  a  rough  way  he  is  the  political  boss  of  the  region  and 
he  has  built  up  a  fortune.  His  own  gun  is  unnotched, 
but  a  half-dozen  men  who  have  incurred  his  displeasure 
have  come  to  abrupt  ends.  The  newspapers  in  Louisville 
and  Lexington  have  intimated  that  besides  being  at  the 
head  of  fiscal  affairs  and  operating  a  general  store  the 
judge  also  issues  his  orders  to  a  murder  syndicate." 


196  THE  POBTAL  OF  DKEAMS 

"  Why,"  I  demanded  in  some  disgust,  "  hasn't  it  been 
proven?" 

"  It  is  difficult  to  prove  things  of  this  sort — when  the 
defendant  is  more  powerful  than  the  law  and  when  juries 
walk  in  terror,"  Weighborne  reminded  me.  "  He  has 
twice  been  tried  for  complicity.  A  company  of  state 
guards  patrolled  the  court-house  yard  to  reassure  venire- 
men  and  witnesses.  The  only  result  was  the  defeat,  at 
the  next  election,  of  the  judge  and  prosecutor  who  had 
made  themselves  obnoxious." 

"Why,"  I  inquired,  "aren't  such  malefactors  taken 
into  a  civilized  circuit,  on  a  change  of  venue,  and  tried 
where  jurors  are  not  intimidated?" 

"  They  have  been — with  the  same  result,"  affirmed  my 
informant.  "  You  see,  while  the  jurors  were  freed  from 
fear,  the  witnesses  knew  they  must  return  home." 

"Shall  we  be  likely  to  meet  this  highly,  interesting 
character?"  I  questioned. 

"  The  store  where  our  wagon  turns  back,"  said  Weigh- 
borne, "  is  his  place." 

"  Then  I  am  to  be  careful  not  to  form  or  express  any 
opinion  adverse  to  judicious  homicide?  Is  that  the 
point?" 

Weighborne  smiled. 

"Our  plans  involve  bringing  a  branch  railroad  along 
the  way  we  have  been  traveling,"  he  replied,  "and  the 


WE  GO  TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  197 

coming  of  that  railroad  means  the  death  knell  of  Jim 
Garvin's  power.  What  is  still  more  to  the  point,  our 
attorney  here  and  the  man  for  whose  house  we  are 
bound  is  the  Hon.  Galloway  Marcus.  He  was  Keithley's 
law  partner,  and  he  is  a  marked  man.  He  it  was  who 
prosecuted  Garvin — and  lost  his  official  head.  His  actual 
head  he  keeps  on  his  shoulders  by  riding  at  the  center  of 
a  bodyguard.  I  tell  you  these  matters  so  that  you  may 
watch  your  words." 

"  Shall  we  encounter  open  hostility  at  this  place?  "  I 
inquired. 

Weighborne  shook  his  head.  "On  the  contrary,  we 
shall  be  most  courteously  received.  Politeness  is  highly 
esteemed  hereabouts.  The  fact  that  a  man  means  to 
'  lay-way '  you  to-night,  with  a  squirrel  gun,  is  not  deemed 
sufficient  reason  for  relaxing  his  courtesy  this  afternoon,'' 

An  hour  later  our  conveyance  drew  up  at  the  junction 
of  two  ragged  roads  where  thin,  outcropping  ledges  of 
limestone  went  down  to  the  rim  of  a  shallow  stream. 
Beyond  the  water  rose  a  beetling  bluff.  One  could 
imagine  that  when*  summer  brought  to  this  hollow  in  the 
hills  its  richness  of  green,  and  its  profusion  of  trumpet 
flower  and  laurel  and  rhododendron,  there  must  be  an 
eye-filling  beauty,  but  now  it  was  unspeakably  raw  and 
desolate. 

Two  houses  were  in  sight  and  both  were  of  depressing 


198  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

ugliness.  In  the  fork  of  the  road  where  the  ground  was 
trodden  hard  stood  the  "  store."  It  was  a  one-room 
shack  built  of  logs  and  boarded  over,  but  innocent  of 
paint.  A  leanto  porch,  disfigured  by  a  few  advertising 
signs,  gave  entrance  to  a  narrow  door.  The  second  house 
set  back  and  higher  up  the  slope  of  the  mountain.  Its 
solidity  was  that  of  mortised  logs  and  its  windows  were 
protected  behind  solid  shutters.  Inside  there  was  plainly 
an  abundance  of  space,  as  befitted  the  dwelling-place  of 
the  district's  overlord.  A  clump  of  white-armed  syca- 
mores partly  masked  its  front,  but  through  the  naked 
branches  one  could  see  that  for  a  hundred  yards  about  it, 
in  every  direction,  lay  unbroken  clearing,  and  that  for  all 
its  civilian  seeming  it  might,  if  need  arose,  stand  siege 
against  anything  less  formidable  than  gatling  guns. 

Stamping  the  cold  and  cramp  from  our  feet,  we  settled 
our  score  with  the  liveryman,  and  turned  into  the  store. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOR. 

INSIDE  Judge  Garvin's  store  we  came  upon  a  group 
of   slovenly   loungers.     Had   my   mind   been    free 
enough  of  its  own  troubling  thoughts  to  spare  a 
remnant  of  interest,  I  should  have  found  this  new  and 
strange  scheme  of  things  engrossing.    I  was  in  a  scrap  of 
America  which  the  onrushing  tide  of  world  advancement 
had   left   stranded   and    forgotten.     Here   a  people   of 
unmixed  British  stock  lived  primitive  lives,  fought  feudal 
wars,  and  shrined  every  virtue  high  except  regard  for 
human  life. 

These  four  narrow  walls  in  part  epitomised  that  life. 
The  shelves  back  of  the  counters  displayed  what  things 
they  held  essentials:  rough  crockery,  coarse  calicoes, 
canned  goods,  barrels  of  brown  sugar,  brogans,  stick 
candy  and  ammunition. 

About  a  small  stove  loafed  some  eight  or  ten  men  and 
several  "  hound-dogs."  The  shoulders  of  these  men 

199 


•200  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

slouched;  their  hands  were  chapped  and  coarse;  their 
clothes  muddied,  but  when  they  walked  it  was  with  some- 
thing of  the  catamount's  softness,  and  their  eyes  were 
alert. 

Behind  the  counter  stood  a  man  of  fifty.  I  knew, 
without  waiting  for  Weighborne's  greeting,  that  this 
must  be  Garvin.  There  was  something  pronounced  yet 
hard  to  define  which  gave  him  the  outstanding  prom- 
inence of  a  master  among  minions. 

He  was  a  large  man  and  inclined  to  stoutness.  His 
hair  and  moustache  were  sandy  and  his  florid  face  was 
marked  with  a  purplish  tracery  of  veins  in  which  the 
blood  appeared  to  bank  and  stand  currentless.  His  neck 
was  grossly  heavy  and  bovine,  but  his  forehead  was 
broad  and  his  eyes  disarmingly  frank  and  blue.  His 
mouth,  too,  fell  into  the  kindly  lines  of  a  perpetual  smile. 

His  clothing  was  rough  and  his  neck  collarless,  but 
one  forgot  this  and  noted  only  the  suavity  of  his  bearing 
and  the  ingratiating  quality  of  his  voice.  Such  was  the 
man  who  should  have  gone  long  ago  to  death  or  imprison- 
ment for  the  orders  he  had  issued  to  his  assassins. 

"Judge  Garvin,"  said  my  companion,  "my  name's 
Weighborne.  I  met  you  once  in  the  court-house.  You 
probably  don't  remember  me." 

The  gigantic  reprobate  smiled  affably. 

"  Sure,   I   remember  you,"  he  affirmed.      "  I  mighty 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOE  201 

seldom  forget  a  man."  He  pame  out  from  his  place  of 
office  behind  the  counter  and  preferred  his  hand.  It 
was  not,  like  those  of  his  henchmen,  a  calloused  hand. 

I  had  leisure  to  glance  about  the  faces  of  the  group 
as  this  colloquy  occurred.  They  had  been  stolidly  silent, 
gazing  at  us  with  unconcealed  curiosity.  When  Weigh- 
borne  introduced  himself  there  was  no  overt  display  of 
interest,  and  yet  unless  I  was  allowing  my  imagination  to 
run  away  with  me  I  sensed  from  that  moment  forward 
that  the  lazy  indolence  of  the  atmosphere  was  electrified. 
The  men  lounged  about  in  unchanged  attitudes  and  from 
time  to  time  spat  on  the  hot  stove,  yet  each  of  them  was 
carefully  appraising  us. 

"  I  reckon  you  gentlemen  came  up  to  look  over  this 
here  coal  and  timber  project?"  Garvin's  voice  seemed 
to  hold  only  a  politely  simulated  interest  in  our  affairs. 

Weighborne  nodded. 

"  Do  you  think,  Judge,  as  a  man  in  good  position  to 
gauge  the  sentiment  of  the  people,  that  we  shall  have 
their  sympathy  in  our  efforts  ?  " 

I  studied  Garvin's  face  closely,  but  if  there  was  a 
spark  of  interest  in  his  eyes,  my  eyes  could  not  detect 
it.  He  smiled  noncommittally  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,  now,  as  to  that,"  he  replied  judicially,  "  I 
couldn't  hardly  say." 

"  We  want  to  develop  the  coal  and  timber  interests  of 


202  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

the  section,"  summarized  Weighbone  briefly.  "  It  will 
mean  railroad  facilities,  better  schools  and  fuller  enforce- 
ment of  the  law." 

Garvin  nodded  in  a  fashion  of  reserved  approval. 
There  was  no  betrayed  hint  of  his  perfect  understanding 
that  it  meant  other  things  as  well :  an  end  of  "Garvinism," 
a  period  to  his  baronial  powers;  the  imminent  danger 
which  lurked  for  him  in  courts  no  longer  afraid  to  try, 
and  witnesses  no  longer  terrified  into  perjury. 

"  That  sounds  purty  promisin',"  he  agreed.  "  It  sounds 
purty  good." 

"  Then  why  would  the  people  not  cooperate  ?  " 

Garvin  gave  the  question  deliberate  consideration. 

"  Well,  now,"  he  finally  said,  "  that  ain't  such  an  easy 
question  to  answer  just  right  off.  The  people  hereabouts 
have  been  livin'  purty  much  the  same  way  fer  nigh  onto 
a  hundred  years.  They're  satisfied." 

"Are  they  satisfied  with  a  reign  of  terror?"  Weigli- 
borne  was  treading  the  thin  ice  of  local  conditions.  I 
fancied  he  was  trying  to  force  Garvin  into  committing 
himself,  but  it  was  a  dangerous  experiment. 

"  What's  anybody  terrified  about  ?  "  inquired  the  Judge 
with  entire  blindness. 

Weighborne,  totally  checkmated  by  this  childlike  query, 
changed  ground  and  laughed. 

"  Oh,  we  hear  a  good  deal  of  talk  down  below,"  he 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOR  203 

explained,  "  about  the  shot  from  the  laurel  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing." 

Judge  Garvin  laughed  heartily. 

"  Oh,  pshaw ! "  he  exclaimed  in  high  good-humor. 
"  There  ain't  nothin'  in  all  that.  Them  newspapers  down 
below's  jest  obliged  to  have  somethin'  to  talk  about. 
We're  all  neighbors  up  here.  We're  simple  sort  of  folks. 
Sometimes  we  has  our  little  arguments,  but — "  the  lips 
still  smiled  genially;  he  paused  and  his  voice  was  like 
a  benediction  as  he  went  on — "  but  I  hope  we  ain't  got  in 
no  such  serious  fix  that  we  needs  regulatin'  from  outside. 
They  do  say  that  most  of  them  fellers  that  got  killed 
needed  killin'  pretty  bad.  I've  lost  two  brothers,  but  I 
ain't  kickin'." 

Weighborne  saw  that  a  withdrawal  from  debate  would 
be  advisable,  but  that  this  withdrawal  must  not  seem 
precipitate. 

"  However,  as  a  matter  of  argument,"  he  suggested, 
"  is  any  man  competent  to  decide  that  his  enemy  needs 
killing?" 

The  judge  went  into  his  trousers-pocket  and  produced 
a  twist  of  tobacco  into  which  he  bit  generously  before 
replying. 

"  Well,"  he  drawled,  "  your  enemy's  the  man  that's 
goin'  to  decide  whether  you  need  killin'.  Why  don't  it 
work  both  ways  ?  " 


204  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

Weighborne  made  no  reply.  One  cannot  argue  with 
a  set  opinion.  The  loungers  were  saying  nothing,  but 
their  eyes  dwelt  admiringly  on  their  spokesman.  At  last 
Garvin  smilingly  inquired : 

"  You'd  have  to-  condemn  rights-of-way,  I  reckon  ?  " 

"  Only  where  we  couldn't  make  individual  trades," 
answered  my  companion. 

"  That  procedure  ain't  apt  to  be  no  ways  popular," 
reflected  Judge  Garvin. 

"  You  gentlemen  understand  I  ain't  criticism',"  he 
assured  us  when  we  made  no  reply.  "If  condemnation 
suits  are  brought  in  my  co'te  I  ain't  got  no  personal  inter- 
ests to  serve.  I'm  jest  namin'  it  to  you,  because  you  asked 
about  the  people's  notions,  that's  all." 

"  At  least,"  fenced  Weighborne,  "  you  yourself  see 
the  advantages  of  development  ?  " 

It  was  putting  a  question  which  was  almost  a  challange 
to  this  leader  of  the  old,  lawless  order  whose  baronial 
power  we  threatened.  He  answered  it  with  no  flicker 
of  visible  interest  in  his  pleasant  drawl. 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  what  little  property  I've  got  would 
be  benefited,  but  as  an  officer  of  the  law,  I  reckon  it 
wouldn't  hardly  be  proper  for  me  to  take  no  sides."  A 
moment  later  he  hospitably  added,  "  If  there's  any  court- 
esy I  can  show  you  gentlemen  just  call  on  me.  Where 
are  you  goin'  to  stop  at  ?  " 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOK  205 

I  gazed  on  this  lord  of  lies  with  compelled  fascination. 
Under  a  crude  exterior  and  a  suavity  which  gave  the 
impression  of  stupid  good-nature  he  was  masking  bitter 
and  intense  feeling.  Here  was  a  tyrant  talking  with  men 
who  represented  the  new  order  and  he  knew  as  well  as 
we  that  if  we  succeeded  his  carefully  built  scheme  must 
topple.  Our  success  and  his  could  not  both  have  life. 
One  must  perish.  The  power  that  had  enriched  him, 
a  power  built  on  murder  and  stealth,  must  go  from  him, 
leaving  him  only  the  contempt  of  his  fellows — or  he  must 
thwart  our  designs.  One  might  have  expected  such 
dissimulation  in  a  polished  diplomat  moving  the  strategic 
pieces  of  the  chessboard  of  some  European  power,  but 
here  it  seemed  inconceivable. 

"  We  are  on  our  way  over  to  the  Galloway  Marcus 
place,"  explained  my  companion  in  a  casual  voice. 

There  was  no  change  of  expression  on  the  face  of  the 
storekeeper,  though  the  name  was  one  he  venomously 
hated.  One  or  two  of  the  more  unguarded  loungers 
scowled  in  silence. 

"  How  did  you  calc'late  to  git  thar  ?  "  asked  Garvin, 

"  It's  all  of  two  miles  an'  they're  rough  miles — mostly 
straight  up  an'  down." 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  walk,"  said  Weighborne. 

"  I'd  like  to  take  you  over  thar,"  said  the  judge 
thoughtfully,  "  I  sure  would,  but  the  fact  is  me  and  Gal 


206  THE  POSTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

Marcus  ain't  got  much  in  common  an' — well,  you  under- 
stand how  it  is?" 

We  thanked  him  for  his  solicitude  and  at  the  same 
moment  one  of  the  henchmen  drew  him  aside  and  spoke 
in  a  low  voice.  Garvin  came  back  and  addressed  us 
again. 

"  Curt  Dawson  says  Cal  Marcus  went  past  here  this 
mornin',  goin'  to'rds  town.  It's  an  hour  by  sun  now — 
he'd  ought  to  be  comin'  back  this  way  before  long." 

I  have  spoken  at  length  of  Garvin  and  have  given  only 
collective  notice  to  the  group  of  mountaineers  who  loafed 
about  the  dingy  store,  because  aside  from  their  more 
savage  qualities  they  were  much  like  the  indolent  loungers 
one  may  see  in  any  cross-roads  grocery.  Even  viewed  as 
feudists,  and  I  was  so  new  to  the  country  that  'I  was 
inclined  to  discount  the  somber  and  murderous  stories 
of  their  ways,  they  were  still  merely  the  members  of  a 
human  wolf  pack  and  much  alike.  Only  this  shrewd 
leader  stood  out  in  personal  relief. 

But  to  this  generalizing  there  must  be  one  exception, 
and  that  was  to  be  found  in  the  person  of  Curt  Dawson. 
Until  he  came  forward  and  drew  his  chief  aside,  I  had 
not  noticed  him  and  he  had  not  emerged  from  his  seat 
in  a  darkened  corner  while  we  had  chatted.  When  he 
did  come  forth  it  was  with  a  step  at  once  indolent  and 
suggestive  of  power.  His  movements  were  all  unhurried, 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOE  207 

even  graceful,  but  every  flexing  and  tensing  of  his  mus- 
cles carried  a  hint  of  potential  swiftness  and  power. 
His  face  was  unshaven  and  dissolute,  but  it  retained  a 
keen  and  instinctive  intelligence.  His  gray  eyes  had  a 
light  in  them  that  seemed  to  come  from  some  inner 
source. 

Curt  Dawson  could  hardly  have  been  more  than  thirty 
and  was  in  the  full  prime  of  his  youthful  strength,  hard 
as  hickory  and  in  the  same  rough  fashion  as  the  pines 
among  which  he  had  grown,  commanding  in  appearance 
and  pungent  in  personality.  I  found  my  eyes  dwelling  on 
him,  and  later  on  this  scrutiny  bore  results.  No  one 
who  had  once  seen  this  young  desperado  could  fail  to 
recognize  him  on  second  meeting.  His  manner  of 
addressing  the  judge  carried  the  assurance  of  the  con- 
fidential man,  and  a  certain  arrogance  of  demeanor. 

We  had  left  our  bags  outside  and  I  took  up  a  position 
near  the  door  where  I  could  watch  the  twisting  ruts  of 
the  drab  road.  We  talked,  as  we  waited,  of  the  outside 
world  and  Garvin  astonished  me  by  his  grasp  on  general 
affairs. 

At  last  Marcus  arrived  and  his  coming  made  a  strange 
picture  which  dwells  still  in  my  mind.  The  western  sky 
was  all  ash  of  rose  and  the  higher  clouds  were  dark 
masses  edged  with  gold.  The  hills  were  gray  and  frown- 
ing ramparts  with  bristling  crests.  Against  this  setting, 


208  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

around  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  appeared  a  gro- 
tesque cortege. 

A  half-score  of  rough  men  mounted  on  unkempt  horses 
came  slowly  and  gloomily  into  view.  They  maintained, 
as  they  rode,  the  slovenly  formation  of  a  hollow  square 
and  across  their  pommels  lay  repeating  rifles.  The  bat- 
tered rims  of  their  felt  hats  drooped  over  sharp-featured 
faces. 

The  only  unarmed  member  of  the  group  rode  at  the 
center  of  the  square.  He  was  tall  and  unspeakably  gaunt. 
One  looked  at  his  worn  and  rugged  face  and  thought  of 
the  earlier  portraits  of  Abraham  Lincoln;  the  portraits 
of  lean  and  battling  days.  The  collar  of  his  threadbare 
overcoat  was  upturned,  but  at  the  opening  one  had  the 
glimpse  of  a  narrow  black  necktie  slipped  askew.  The 
clean-shaven  line  of  his  mouth  was  set  in  relentless 
determination. 

The  bodyguard  rode  with  hanging  reins,  and  each 
right  hand  lay  in  counterfeited  carelessness  on  the  lock 
of  its  rifle. 

"  Thar  he  comes  now,"  commented  Garvin.  "  You 
must  excuse  me  if  I  don't  go  out  to  introduce  you.  He's 
a  bitter  kind  of  feller.  You  understand  how  it  is." 

At  Weighborne's  signal  his  attorney  halted  and  the 
men  of  the  bodyguard  drew  rein,  keeping  their  places 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOR  209 

about  him.  We  walked  out  to  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  while  we  talked  to  the  rawboned,  life-battered  man 
in  the  center  of  the  hollow  square,  his  attendants  shouted 
greetings  to  the  loungers  on  the  porch  of  the  store.  These 
greetings  partook  of  the  nature  of  pleasantries  and  the 
only  note  of  frank  hostility  came  from  the  throats  of 
the  hounds.  They  bristled  and  growled  with  an  instinct 
which  was  softened  by  no  artificial  code  of  hypocrisy. 
Still,  so  long  as  the  halt  lasted,  the  two  parties  kept  their 
eyes  alertly  fixed  on  each  other.  It  needed  little  penetra- 
tion to  discover  that  the  geniality  was  shallow  and  tem- 
porary, like  that  between  the  outposts  of  hostile  armies 
lying  close-camped,  across  an  interval  soon  to  be  closed 
in  battle. 

"  You  made  a  very  unfortunate  mistake  in  stopping 
here,"  said  Marcus  to  Weighborne,  in  a  low  voice.  He 
nodded  to  two  mountaineers  who  rode  on  the  far  side 
of  the  cavalcade.  The  slipped  from  their  saddles  and 
allowed  us  to  mount  in  their  stead  while  they  trudged 
alongside,  carrying  our  bags. 

As  we  started  forward,  Weighborne  answered. 

"  I  didn't  halt  at  Garvin's  place  from  choice.  The 
wagon  could  go  no  further.  I  don't  suppose  there  was 
any  actual  danger,  and  after  all  I  wanted  to  see  how 
he  would  talk." 


210  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Marcus  nodded  and  drew  his  mouth  tighter. 

"  It  turns  out  all  right,"  he  said,  "  but  don't  do  it  again." 

After  a  moment's  silence  he  burst  out  bitterly. 

"  No  danger !  My  God,  man,  do  you  suppose  I  ride 
like  this — surrounded  by  armed  men,  because  it  pleases 
my  pride  ?  "  He  swept  his  talon-like  hand  around  him 
in  a  circle.  "  Look  at  them !  Do  you  reckon  I  do  that 
for  pomp  and  display  ?  Do  you  suppose  any  man  likes  to 
say  good-bye  to  his  children  when  he  leaves  home  with 
the  thought  in  his  mind  that  it  may  be  a  last  good-bye  ?  " 

"  Is  it  as  bad  as  that  ?  "  I  questioned  with  the 
stranger's  incredulity. 

He  turned  his  hunted  eyes  on  me.  "  Worse,"  he  said 
briefly.  "  I  dare  not  go  unguarded  from  my  house  to 
my  barn,  sir.  Keithley  used  to  carry  his  two-year-old 
child  into  court  in  his  arms.  Even  they  would  not  shoot 
a  baby.  One  day  he  went  without  the  child.  That  day 
he  died." 

I  looked  at  the  face  which  was  turned  toward  me.  It 
was  a  face  from  which  had  been  whipped  the  knowledge 
of  how  to  smile.  We  rode  for  a  half-mile  in  silence  with 
only  the  cuppy  thud  of  hoofs  on  the  soft  earth,  the 
creaking  of  stirrup  leather  and  the  clink  of  bit  rings. 

"  Why,"  I  asked  at  last,  "  don't  you  leave  such  a 
country  and  establish  yourself  where  you  can  have  secu- 
rity?" 


A  CHAT  WITH  A  DICTATOR  211 

His  angular  chin  came  up  with  a  jerk.  His  eyes 
flashed. 

"  Go  away  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  Do  you  think  a  man 
wants  to  be  driven  from  the  country  where  he  and 
his  parents  and  his  children  were  born?  Besides,  sir, 
my  mother  belongs  to  the  old  order.  I  was  the  first  to 
be  educated.  She  still  smokes  her  pipe  in  the  chimney- 
corner.  She  is  of  the  mountains.  She  must  stay  here." 
He  paused,  then  his  words  began  again  dispassionately, 
and  gathered,  as  he  talked,  the  fiery  resonance  of  the 
instinctive  orator. 

"If  the  men  who  love  war,  leave  lawless  countries, 
who  in  God's  name  is  to  do  the  work?  The  order  is 
changing.  What  does  Kipling  say  about  the  men  who 
blaze  trails  ? 

" '  On  the  sand-drift,  on  the  veldt-side,  in 

the  fern-scrub  we  lay, 

That  our  sons  might  follow  after  by  the 

bones  on  the  way.' 

"  These  men  have  made  a  mockery  of  the  law.  It  is 
my  desire  to  punish  them  with  the  law.  It  is  my  purpose 
to  do  so  unless  they  kill  me  first.  Why  am  I  repre- 
senting your  company  ?  For  the  fee  ?  No,  sir !  .  .  .  God 
knows  I  need  the  fee,  but  I  shall  also  have  a  bigger  com- 
pensation. When  the  new  order  comes  I  shall  see 


212  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Garvin's  power  crumple.  I  shall  send  him  to  the  gallows 
or  to  the  penitentiary.  That  will  be  my  reward."  His 
voice  was  again  passionate.  "  The  filthy  assassin  realizes 
my  motive  and  he  sees  in  you  my  allies.  Watch  him, 
and  safeguard  your  steps." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  VOLLEY   FROM    THE   LAUREL. 

WHEN  we  reached  the  attorney's  house  the  reality 
of  feud  conditions  gained  corroboration  from 
a  hundred  small  details.  Like  Garvin's,  it  stood 
in  an  area  stripped  of  trees  and  undergrowth.  It  was  a 
large  cabin  of  logs  and  to  its  original  two  rooms  rambling 
additions  had  from  time  to  time  been  made.  Everywhere 
a  note  of  the  poor  and  primitive  stood  out  in  uncouth 
nakedness.  The  men  of  the  guard  were  all  impoverished 
kinsmen,  who  lived  like  parasites  upon  the  lawyer's 
strained  and  meager  bounty.  Several  of  them  slept  on 
pallets  in  a  loft  gained  by  a  ladder,  and  others  dwelt  in 
near-by  cabins.  The  room  turned  over  to  us  served  as 
guest  chamber  and  parlor,  and  here  alone  in  the  house 
was  there  any  hint  of  concession  to  appearances. 
Through  the  cracks  of  its  uncarpeted  floor  chilly  gusts 
of  wind  swept  upward,  and  sent  us  hovering  quail-like 
as  close  as  possible  to  the  stone  hearth  of  the  broad 
chimney  place.  A  huge  four-post  bed  in  one  corner 
was  decorated  with  stiff  pillows  upon  which  purple  paper 

213 


214  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

showed  through  coverings  of  coarse  lace;  patches  of 
newspaper  stopped  the  widest  wall  cracks.  A  cheap  cot- 
tage organ  stood  at  one  side  and  rush-bottomed  chairs 
completed  the  furnishings.  A  small  cuddy-hole  housed 
the  attorney  and  his  wife.  His  mother,  an  ancient  crone- 
like  woman  of  withered,  leathery  face,  and  all  her  brood 
of  grandchildren  slept  in  two  beds  in  the  large,  murky 
room  which  also  accommodated  dining  table,  cook  stove 
and  pantry  accessories. 

One  saw  a  profusion  of  firearms,  and  unlike  the  make- 
shift of  less  important  things  these  were  modern  and 
effective.  Before  lamp-lighting  came  the  barring  of 
heavy  shutters,  and  as  time  passed  we  grew  accustomed 
to  other  evidences  of  that  caution  which  was  daily  routine 
with  these  people  living  in  a  practical  state  of  siege. 
We  were  fed,  in  relays,  by  the  flickering  light  of  a  coal- 
oil  lamp.  The  women  declined  to  partake  of  food  until 
we  were  through,  and  busied  themselves  incessantly 
between  stove  and  table.  As  we  withdrew  to  the 
draughty  room  which  was  ours  for  sleeping,  but  common 
ground  until  bedtime,  the  retainers  shuffled  into  the  places 
about  the  table  which  we  had  just  vacated,  for  supper, 
eating,  as  suited  henchmen,  after  their  betters. 

We  were  not  a  merry  party  as  we  huddled  in  a  semi- 
circle around  the  hearth  where  the  blaze  burned  our 
faces  while  the  gusty  air  chilled  our  backs.  Weighborne 


A  VOLLEY  FROM  THE  LAUREL  215 

and  Marcus  argued  over  an  opened  copy  of  Kentucky 
Reports.  The  old  woman,  with  a  face  shriveled  like  that 
of  an  aged  monkey,  crouched  in  her  chair  and  sucked  with 
toothless  gums  at  a  clay  pipe. 

When  an  hour  had  thawed  the  shyness  of  the  moun- 
tain folk  into  general  conversation  and  I  had  been  forced 
to  tell  many  traveler's  tales,  Marcus  arose  and  with  a 
rough  tenderness  wrapped  a  shawl  around  the  shivering 
shoulders  of  the  old  woman. 

"  My  mother,"  he  said  with  no  note  of  apology,  "  has 
never  been  to  Louisville  or  traveled  on  a  railroad  train. 
She  is  afraid  of  accidents."  He  turned  and  shouted 
into  her  deaf  ear,  "  Mother,  Mr.  Deprayne  here  has 
crossed  the  ocean.  He's  been  to  the  Holy  Land." 

The  old  woman  lifted  her  wrinkled  eyes  and  gazed  at 
me,  in  wonderment. 

"Well,  Prov-i-dence! "  she  exclaimed.  It  was  her 
single  contribution  to  the  evening's  conversation. 

Once  a  dog  barked,  and  with  silent  promptness  two 
or  three  of  the  younger  men  melted  out  into  the  night 
to  reconnoiter. 

The  visitor  proved  to  be  only  a  neighbor  seeking  to 
borrow  some  farm  implement  and  he  announced  himself 
from  afar  with  proper  assurance  that  he  came  as  a 
friend.  We  heard  his  voice  drawing  nearer  and  shout- 
ing :  "  It's  me.  I'm  a-comin'  in." 


216  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

I  was  for  the  most  part  a  listener,  offering  few  con- 
tributions to  the  talk.  I  was  thinking  of  other  matters, 
but  before  the  evening  came  to  an  end  I  had  heard,  in 
plain  unvarnished  recital,  stories  which  began  to  make 
the  spirit  of  the  vendetta  comprehensible.  I  spoke  of 
Curt  Dawson  and  asked  our  host  for  a  biography.  The 
mountain  lawyer's  rugged  face  grew  dark  with  feeling. 

"  I  have  twice  prosecuted  him,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  And 
in  the  chain  of  evidence  I  wove  around  him  there  was 
no  weak  link,  but  a  conviction  would  have  been  a  personal 
defiance  of  Garvin.  That  required  courage.  Each  time 
the  foreman  of  the  panel  came  in  with  perjury  on  his 
lips  and  reported  '  not  guilty.' "  He  paused  and  then 
went  on.  "  When  Keithley  fell  in  the  court-house  yard, 
and  while  the  rifle  smoke  was  still  curling  from  a  jury- 
room  window,  I  rushed  into  the  place  and  I  found  this 
boy  there.  He  was  wiping  gun  grease  from  his  hands, 
and  he  testified  that  he  had  heard  the  shot  while  passing 
and  had  come  in  to  detect  the  assassin.  Of  course,  he 
was  the  murderer.  He  has  other  crimes  of  the  same 
type  to  his  damnable  discredit.  He  is  Garvin's  principal 
gun-fighter.  Garvin  has  never  fired  a  shot  in  accom- 
plishment of  his  crimes.  His  men  have  all  been  slain 
by  proxy.  Curt  Dawson  has  become  so  notorious  that 
of  late  Garvin  has  kept  him  as  much  as  possible  out  of 
sight.  I  am  a  little  surprised  that  he  mentioned  Dawson's 


A  VOLLEY  FROM  THE  LAUREL  217 

name  to  you.  He  has  of  late  rather  pursued  the  policy 
of  holding  ostensibly  aloof,  and  he  might  have  inferred 
that  you  would  repeat  the  circumstances  to  me."  Marcus 
rose  and  paced  the  cabin  floor  for  a  few  turns,  then 
came  back  and  took  his  seat  once  more  in  the  circle 
about  the  fire. 

"  You  mean,"  suggested  Weighborne,  "that  the  impli- 
cation of  Dawson  was  coming  too  close  to  identifying  the 
master  hand  ?  " 

The  lawyer  nodded.  "It  is  well  understood  that  Daw- 
son  is  merely  a  part  of  Garvin.  That  makes  it  unwise 
to  give  him  great  prominence.  If  he  has  been  called  back 
it  means  something." 

"And  you  think  that  something  is — ?"  Weighborne 
left  the  question  unfinished. 

"  I  think  that  when  the  buzzards  come  there  is  apt  to 
be  carrion."  The  thin,  close  lips  of  the  attorney  closed 
tightly. 

"  I  have  always  understood  that  this  man  is  to  be 
my  executioner  some  day.  Maybe  the  time  is  closer 
at  hand  than  I  anticipated." 

"  Is  this  fellow  totally  illiterate  or  has  he,  like  Garvin, 
a  shrewd  knowledge  of  things  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  He  has  had  only  scant  and  primary  schooling,  but 
he  has  learned  a  great  deal  that  is  not  in  books.  He  has 
seen  the  outer  world  as  a  railroad  brakeman  and  when 


218  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

still  a  boy  went  to  the  Klondike.  .  .  .  Let  me  impress 
this  on  you  both.  At  any  time  you  see  him  don't  fail 
to  tell  me  at  once  the  full  particulars  ...  I  had  supposed 
him  to  be  in  Virginia.  If  he's  here  now  he  will  bear 
some  watching." 

The  two  hours  between  early  supper  and  early  bed- 
time dragged  along  tediously.  The  old  woman  sat  dozing 
and  nodding  while  two  of  the  retainers  sang  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  cottage  organ,  strange  songs,  half-folk 
lore,  in  weird,  nasal  voices  that  rose  high  and  shrill. 
This  singing  was  without  musical  effect,  for  the  moun- 
taineer alters  his  voice  in  song  and  unconsciously  adopts 
the  tradition  of  the  Chinese  stage,  achieving  a  thin  fal- 
setto. It  was  a  relief  when  the  men  climbed  their 
ladder  and  our  host  bade  us  good-night. 

Early  morning  found  me  awake,  but  already  someone 
had  hospitably  kindled  our  fire,  and  when  we  went  out 
on  to  the  porch,  where  a  tin  basin  and  gourd  dipper  sup- 
plied the  only  bathing  facilities,  a  small  tow-headed  boy 
was  there  before  us  with  hot  water  in  a  saucepan.  The 
mountaineer  is  averse  to  cold  water  and  sparing  with  hot. 
It  was  presumed  that  we  shared  this  prejudice. 

Frost  still  hung  thick  on  the  stubble  and  the  mists 
lingered  in  the  valleys  when  we  climbed  into  our  saddles 
and  trailed  out  to  inspect  one  of  the  tracts  in  which  we 
were  interested. 


A  VOLLEY  FROM  THE  LAUREL  219 

I  was  not  a  happy  man  nor  one  bearing  a  blithe  spirit, 
for  my  own  discoveries  crowded  too  closely  and  heavily 
on  my  heart,  to  be  lightened  by  the  mere  novelty  of  fresh 
surroundings.  Yet  even  in  my  shadowed  state  of  mind,  I 
could  not  help  drinking  in  the  splendidly  unpolluted  air 
with  deep  breaths  that  made  my  lungs  feel  .new.  From 
frost-rimmed  earth  to  infinity  it  seemed  to  stretch  in 
clean  and  filtered  clarity.  The  mountains  were  no  longer 
ragged  piles  of  chocolate  and  slate.  The  fresh  vigor  of 
morning  had  folded  them  in  the  softening  dyes  of  a 
dozen  inspiriting  colors.  Distance  merged  the  leafless 
trees  into  veil-like  masses  of  dove  browns  and  grays 
where  shadows  of  violet  lurked  and  deepened.  The 
woods  wore  a  brave,  if  ragged,  coat  of  russet  and  bur- 
gundy and  orange  with  a  strong  hint  of  that  purple  which 
is  the  proper  garb  of  kings  and  hills.  As  we  rode  along 
ridges  we  looked  down  into  vast  basins  of  variegated 
country,  rough  but  essentially  beautiful.  On  the  lips  of 
the  young  day  was  a  silent  bugle-call  of  color.  Above 
and  about  us  the  high-piled  barriers  of  the  mountains 
clambered  steeply  into  space  where  the  sky  was  blue  and 
tuneful. 

I  understood  why  Marcus  had  so  resentfully  repudiated 
the  suggestion  of  turning  his  back  on  this  country.  I 
knew  that  a  man  whose  eyes  had  first  opened  on  such 
scenes  would  not  wish  that  their  last  gaze  should  be 


220  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

exiled.  Rough  and  hard  as  life  among  these  peaks  might 
be,  there  brooded  a  spirit  here  which  would  make  flight 
impossible.  The  roots  of  the  laurel  would  hold  the 
native  son  planted  where  his  life  had  come  to  bud  and 
leaf.  The  eagle's  brood  would  not  go  down  to  seek  the 
easy  security  of  prim  orchards  and  smooth  meadows. 

We  rode  sometimes  for  hours  on  end  without  seeing  a 
cabin.  Then  we  would  come  upon  a  rude  habitation  of 
logs  and  pause  to  pass  greetings  with  a  gaunt  man  in 
butternut  brown,  and  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  tow- 
headed  children  and  slatternly  women. 

So  civil  were  all  these  salutations ;  so  at  variance  with 
any  idea  of  violence  that  the  elaborate  precautions  of 
Marcus  (the  very  fashion  in  which  we  were  now  riding 
armed  and  en  cortege)  began  to  assume  a  ludicrous  gro- 
tesquerie. 

Of  course,  I  argued  with  myself,  the  attorney  knew 
his  own  country  and  I  did  not,  yet  I  was  morally  certain 
that  Weighborne  and  I  could  have  gone  about  our  busi- 
ness unescorted  and  as  secure  as  though  we  were  inspect- 
ing suburban  lots  under  the  guidance  of  a  real-estate 
dealer.  I  suggested  something  of  the  sort  to  Marcus 
and  his  only  response  for  the  moment  was  a  grim  smile. 
Then  he  patiently  began  to  explain. 

"  At  this  moment,"  he  said,  "  Jim  Garvin  knows  just 
where  we  are  and  just  what  we're  doing.  We  have 


221 

spoken  to  three  men.  Of  that  three  at  least  two  have 
notified  the  store  of  our  passing.  There  is  a  'phone  at 
Chicken  Gizzard,  you  know." 

It  seemed  rather  too  exaggerated  a  system  of  espionage 
for  probability. 

"  And  telephoning  in  this  country,"  went  on  the  attor- 
ney, "  is  not  so  simple  a  matter  as  you  might  suppose. 
We  have  no  general  system  and  no  universal  exchange. 
There  are  telephones  or  '  boxes'  as  they  are  locally  called, 
connecting  three  or  four  houses  into  separate  groups.  A 
telephone  message  from  my  house  to  Lexington,  for 
example,  would  have  to  be  repeated  and  relayed  through 
a  half-dozen  '  boxes '  before  it  reached  its  destination." 

And  yet  during  all  that  day's  ride  and  all  of  the  next 
three  days  there  was  never,  to  my  eye,  an  indication  that 
any  man  interested  himself  in  our  goings  or  comings. 
On  the  fourth  day  it  was  otherwise. 

We  had  covered  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles  since 
breakfast  over  roads  that  were  full  of  climbs  and  other 
places  where  there  were  no  roads  at  all.  Our  spent 
horses  plodded  wearily,  though  the  sun  hung  close  enough 
over  the  western  highlands  to  warn  us  that,  unless  we 
increased  our  pace,  we  should  be  benighted. 

We  were  riding  with  our  ever-present  squad  of  gun- 
men and  our  road  dipped  to  the  valley  where  we  should 
cross  that  branch  of  Chicken  Gizzard  which  bounded  the 


222  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Marcus  place  at  the  back.  We  shook  our  jaded  mounts 
into  a  shambling  trot  and  reached  it  at  that  hour  which 
ushers  in  the  short  November  dusk.  The  woods  were 
still  and  the  bark  of  a  belated  squirrel  going  home  from 
forage  broke  the  silence  with  a  seeming  of  noisiness. 

The  creek  was  shallow  and  fordable,  but  to  reach  the 
crossing  it  was  necessary  to  follow  a  dizzy  bridle  path 
steeply  downward  and  in  single  file,  between  thick  grow- 
ing saplings  and  laurel.  Back  of  the  mountains  the  sky 
held  a  pale  afterglow  against  which  the  higher  timber 
sketched  itself  starkly.  The  body  of  the  woods  was  a 
dark  mass  out  of  which  only  the  white-barked  sycamores 
showed  themselves  with  any  clearness  of  individuality. 

Beyond  the  ribbon  of  water  lay  Marcus's  rotting  and 
weed-choked  division  fence.  The  smoke  from  his  chim- 
ney, and  the  glint  at  the  crack  of  a  lighted  window  were 
visible  a  half-mile  distant. 

Our  front  horses  had  splashed  fetlock  deep  into  the 
water  and  halted  the  cavalcade  to  drink  when  a  sudden 
staccato  outbreak  ripped  the  silence.  Three  thin  jets  of 
rifle  fire  blinked  out  with  acrid  sharpness  from  the 
laurel  through  which  we  had  just  come.  The  men  who 
had  ambushed  us  must  have  lain  so  close  to  our  passing 
line  that  we  might  almost  have  touched  them  from  our 
saddles  as  we  rode  down  the  declivity. 

There  was   instantly  a  confused,  snorting,   splashing 


A  VOLLEY  FROM  THE  LAUREL  223 

stampede  for  the  cover  of  the  opposite  shore.  I,  who 
chanced  to  be  riding  third  in  line,  followed  my  two  lead- 
ers and  made  the  timber  in  safety.  I  slid  from  my 
saddle  and  found  refuge  in  a  tangle  of  drift  at  the  roots 
of  a  sycamore  which  overhung  the  water.  My  armament 
was  limited  to  an  automatic  pistol,  small  enough  for  the 
pocket,  and  it  hardly  warranted  intrusion  into  a  debate 
with  repeating  rifles.  As  chance  would  have  it,  just  as 
our  cavalcade  had  halted,  and  the  instant  before  the 
volley  was  fired,  I  had  half-turned  in  my  saddle  to  gaze 
back  at  the  two-color  effect  of  the  slate-gray  hills  and 
lemon  sky.  Every  other  face  was  looking  forward,  and 
I  alone  saw  a  figure  standing  above,  in  the  brief  illumina- 
tion of  a  rifle  flash.  It  was  the  figure  of  Curt  Dawson. 
Those  of  our  party  who  found  themselves  in  the  rear 
and  hampered,  in  their  escape,  by  the  confusion  ahead, 
dismounted  in  the  stream  and  began  maneuvering  to  the 
opposite  shore  at  an  angle  which  gave  them  protection 
behind  the  bodies  of  their  mounts.  As  they  came  they 
fired  with  random  aim  at  the  points  from  which  had 
spurted  the  ambuscading  fire.  But  over  the  hill  had 
settled  a  sudden  and  profound  quiet.  The  darkness  had 
spoiled  markmanship  which  was  presumably  selected  for 
its  efficiency. 

It   appeared  that   every  one  had  made  the  crossing 
unharmed,  though  for  a  few  minutes  each  man  held  to 


224  THE  POKTAL  OF  DREAMS 

such  concealment  as  he  had  attained  and  there  was  no 
effort  to  reunite. 

At  last,  like  disorganized  partridges  coming  back  to 
the  covey,  we  crawled  out  of  our  individual  hiding-places 
and  began  collecting  on  the  trail-like  path  which  went 
twisting  up  to  the  house.  Some  led  their  horses  and 
some,  who  like  myself  had  been  separated  from  their 
beasts,  came  on  foot. 

As  we  gathered  without  a  sound  the  mountaineers  were 
searching  the  timber  with  wide  eyes  that  contended 
against  the  darkness. 

Then  came  the  startling  outburst  of  a  fresh  volley.  It 
was  fired  into  the  group  and  fired  from  cover  on  the 
attorney's  own  property.  I  felt  a  sensation  not  unlike 
a  hornet  sting  in  my  left  shoulder  and  clapped  my  right 
hand  against  the  spot.  I  did  not  fall.  I  even  had  a  sense 
of  surprise  at  the  comparative  mildness  and  painlessness 
of  the  pang.  I  heard  some  one  fall  heavily,  but  in  the 
darkness  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  individuals.  So 
close  on  the  assassin's  shots  that  they  were  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable came  the  cracks  of  our  own  guns,  and  with- 
out giving  the  concealed  riflemen  time  to  shift  positions 
our  men  charged  into  the  ambush. 

Our  pdlicy  was  no  longer  one  of  retreat,  but  of  attack. 
I  saw  a  tall  youth  plough  his  way  through  the  thicket 


225 

toward  a  clump  of  cedar  which  had  just  belched  fire,  and 
having  to  do  something,  I  followed  at  his  heels.  The 
silence  had  given  way  now  to  the  ripping  of  bushes  and 
the  kicking  up  of  dead  leaves,  and  twice  off  at  my  side  I 
heard  the  pop-popping  of  rifles.  I,  following  my  guide, 
was  crouching  and  slipping  from  tree  trunk  to  laurel 
bush  and  from  laurel  bush  to  boulder.  Suddenly  a  spurt 
of  flame  and  a  report  burst  out  in  our  faces,  and  the  song 
of  a  bullet  passing  near  made  me  duck  my  head.  Then 
the  man  with  me  fired  and  there  was  a  groan  from  the 
front  and  the  crash  of  a  body  falling  into  a  bush. 

Afterward  (I  suppose  in  a  very  few  minutes)  quiet 
settled  again,  except  for  the  treading  of  our  men  as 
they  searched  the  timber.  The  assailants  were  clearly 
driven  off.  My  companion  even  ventured  to  bend  down 
as  we  returned  and  strike  a  match  over  the  fallen  body 
in  the  brush.  As  it  flared  up,  I  recognized  with  a  shock, 
the  thin,  saddened  face  of  the  sockless  man  who  had 
accosted  us  in  the  road,  and  whom  our  driver  had  called 
Rat-Ankle.  He  now  lay  doubled  in  a  shapeless  heap,  and 
dead. 

We  already  knew  that  the  casualties  had  not  been  one- 
sided, and  as  my  companion  and  I  regained  the  road 
among  the  first  we  saw  that  some  one  still  lay  there,  his 
horse  standing  quietly  over  him.  A  glance  told  me  that 


226  THE  PORTAL  OP  DREAMS 

it  was  Weighborne.  His  bulky  size  even  in  that  crumpled 
attitude  unmistakably  proclaimed  him.  As  we  bent  over 
him,  we  found  that  he  was  unconscious  but  breathing, 
and  we  hoisted  him  up  to  an  empty  saddle,  where  we  held 
him  as  we  made  the  trip  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  CAVALCADE  FROM  THE  LAUREL. 

I  HAVE  since  searchingly  asked  myself  whether,  at 
that  time,  any  mean  thought  entered  my  mind  as 
to  the  possibilities  which  might  open  for  me  if 
Weighborne  died.  I  set  it  down  in  justification,  though 
it  may  rather  be  attributable  to  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  than  to  inherent  guilelessness,  that  that  phase  of 
the  matter  did  not  occur  to  me.  Had  I  entertained  such 
speculations  they  must  have  been  short  lived,  for  when 
we  arrived  at  the  cabin  and  made  an  examination,  and 
when  later  by  relayed  telephone  messages  we  brought  the 
doctor,  it  was  to  learn  that  the  patient  would  have  to  lie 
in  bed  for  perhaps  a  week  or  two,  but  need  fear  no  grave 
consequences.  His  wound  had  narrowly  missed  the  heart, 
but  the  margin  was  sufficient.  My  own  injury  proved  to 
be  a  mere  flesh  scratch  and  a  bandage  did  for  it  all  that 
was  needful. 

I  was  rather  surprised  at  the  almost  lethargic  calm- 
ness with  which  the  household  greeted  our  disordered 

227 


228  THE  POETAL  OF  DBEAMS 

homecoming.  Preparations  for  supper  went  on  with  little 
interruption.  There  was  no  excited  demand  from  those 
who  had  stayed  at  home,  for  the  full  story,  and  even  the 
children  seemed  uninquisitive.  Only  the  aged  woman 
showed  a  flash  of  unexpected  fire  as  she  demanded, 
"  Didn't  ye  git  nary  one  of  them?  " 

"  We  got  Rat-Ankle,"  drawled  an  unshaven  lout  with  a 
revolting  note  of  placid  satisfaction. 

"  That's  better'n  not  gettin'  nary  one,"  commended  the 
old  woman.  Her  voice  revealed  the  hereditary  source 
of  Marcus'  ability  for  sincere  hating. 

I  looked  at  her  aged,  monkey-like  face  and  the  intensity 
of  her  beady  eyes  with  wonderment.  There  was  vindic- 
tiveness  there  but  no  fear,  no  excitement  even,  except 
the  excitement  of  hate — and  yet  this  old  woman  was  the 
same  who  could  not  be  induced  to  travel  on  a  railroad 
train  for  fear  of  an  accident. 

It  was  several  hours  later  that  the  doctor  arrived.  He 
was  much  like  the  men  among  whom  he  lived.  If  he  had 
once  been  otherwise  long  association  had  roughened  him 
to  their  own  similitude.  He  entered  with  a  wordless  nod 
and  went  straight  to  the  bed  where  the  injured  man  lay 
unconscious.  After  a  silent  examination  he  opened  his 
worn  and  faded  saddle-bags  and  proceeded  taciturnly  but 
capably  with  his  work.  He  asked  no  questions  and 
Marcus  volunteered  no  explanation.  At  last  he  rose  and 


A  CAVALCADE  FKOM  THE  LAUKEL   229 

said,  "  He  ain't  in  no  great  danger  if  he  keeps  quiet. 
Have  you  got  a  little  licker  in  the  house,  Galloway  ?  " 

Before  the  fireplace  he  poured  generously  from  a  stone- 
ware jug  into  a  tin  cup,  but  instead  of  tossing  down 
his  white  whiskey  at  a  gulp  he  sipped  it  slowly,  while  he 
gave  directions  to  the  lawyer  or  shouted  them  loudly  into 
the  ear  of  the  old  woman.  The  only  allusion  to  the 
ambuscade  came  from  her. 

"  Our  folks  got  Rat- Ankle,"  she  announced  somewhat 
triumphantly.  "  But  they  didn't  see  nary  other  face  of 
them  that  lay-wayed  'em." 

"  Don't  pay  no  attention  to  Mother,"  said  Marcus  more 
hastily  than  I  had  before  heard  him  speak ;  "  at  times 
she  gets  childish." 

The  physician  nodded. 

Then  it  was  that  I,  in  an  ignorance  which  had  not 
learned  the  valuable  art  of  general  distrust,  volunteered  a 
remark  for  which  my  host,  so  soon  as  we  were  alone, 
rebuked  me  sternly. 

"  Mrs.  Marcus  is  mistaken  as  to  that,"  I  said.  "Just 
as  the  volley  was  fired,  I  recognized  Curt  Dawson." 

The  voice  of  Galloway  Marcus  again  cut  in  with  an 
interruption.  "  Oh,  I  reckon  you're  mistaken  about  that, 
Mr.  Deprayne.  I  understand  Dawson  is  across  the  Vir- 
ginia line." 

"  I'm  sure  enough,"  I  persisted,  failing  entirely  to  catch 


230  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

my  host's  effort  to  silence  me,  "  to  swear  to  it  in  court." 

"  Mr.  Deprayne  is  a  stranger  here,"  deprecated  the 
lawyer.  "  He  isn't  familiar  enough  with  our  people  to  be 
certain  in  these  matters." 

Again  the  doctor  nodded  and,  taking  up  his  saddle- 
bags, went  out.  As  soon  as  he  had  bidden  him  farewell, 
Marcus  returned.  He  walked  over  and  stood  before  me 
with  a  face  that  was  deeply  troubled.  Except  for  his 
mother,  too  deaf  to  hear  his  low-pitched  voice,  and 
Weighborne,  whose  initial  unconsciousness  had  passed 
under  medical  administrations  into  a  profound  sleep,  we 
were  alone. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  patiently,  "  I  can't  be  ,.  ..^vy  with  you 
because  you  don't  understand  what  you  have  done.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  warned  you.  I  sent  for  Richardson 
because  he  was  the  only  doctor  within  many  hours'  riding, 
but  I  don't  confide  in  him.  He  will  carry  straight  to 
Garvin  your  announcement  that  you  have  recognized  his 
gun-man.  You  have  given  away  a  secret  I  might  have 
used  to  great  advantage.  Sir,  you  have  tremendously 
complicated  matters." 

He  dropped  his  hands  at  his  sides  with  a  weary  gesture, 
half-despair.  "  However,  it's  done  now,"  he  added,  "  it's 
no  use  to  deplore  it — but,  for  God's  sake,  be  more  careful 
in  the  future." 

When  Weighborne  recovered  consciousness  he  spoke 


A  CAVALCADE  FROM  THE  LAUREL   231 

to  me  once  more  of  his  wife.  He  was  afraid  that  an 
exaggerated  report  of  the  affair  would  leak  through  to 
the  Lexington  papers,  and  he  wished  to  allay  her  anxiety. 
The  duty  of  this  reassurance  devolved  on  me,  but  the 
complicated  system  of  telephoning  spared  me  the  torture 
of  felicitating  her.  The  message  was  relayed  through 
disinterested  voices  before  it  reached  her  ears.  As  it 
eventuated  Weighborne's  precaution  was  a  wise  one 
since  the  news  filtered  that  same  night  to  a  newspaper 
correspondent  at  the  railroad  town.  This  scribe  so  well 
utilized  his  information  that  the  papers  of  the  next  morn- 
ing carried  scare-heads  over  a  story  of  bloodshed  and 
massacre  which  accorded  to  both  of  us  desperate  wounds 
and  ludicrously  lauded  us  as  heroes. 

It  cannot  be  said  for  Weighborne  that  he  proved  a 
docile  patient.  He  had  all  the  energetic  man's  aversion 
to  inactive  days  in  bed,  and  he  greatly  preferred,  if  he 
must  submit  to  such  an  exigency,  that  it  be  in  his  own  bed 
and  among  more  plentiful  conveniences,  than  could  be 
afforded  here.  But  to  move  him  over  twenty  semi-per- 
pendicular miles  was  pronounced  impossible  and  to  that 
decree  he  had  to  submit. 

I,  who,  despite  my  newspaper  peril,  was  not  even 
bedridden,  continued  the  daily  rides  to  tracts  marked 
for  inspection,  and  discussed  the  day's  work  with  him 
in  the  evening. 


232 


One  afternoon  we  met  in  the  road  a  party  of  horsemen 
who  halted  us  and  expressed  the  desire  for  a  peaceable 
parley.  Marcus  gave  his  assurance  and  a  stout  fellow 
with  a  ruddy,  good-natured  face  and  a  benevolent  smile 
rode  out  and  accosted  us. 

"  You're  a  lawyer,  Galloway,"  he  began,  "  an'  I  reckon 
you  know  I've  got  to  do  my  duty.  I  hope  you  ain't 
holdin'  hit  ergainst  me  none."  He  paused  and  seemed 
relieved  when  the  attorney  nodded  his  understanding. 

"  I  just  want  ter  know  ef  you  won't  bring  yer  fellers 
ter  county  co'te  any  day  this  week  that  suits  you  an' 
answer  fer  the  killin'  of  Rat-Ankle.  I'm  namin'  it  to  yer 
like  a  friend,  an'  I'm  askin'  you  ter  set  the  day.  Hit 
ain't  nothin'  but  a  matter  of  givin'  bail  noways." 

"  For  whom  have  you  warrants  ?  "  asked  Marcus. 

The  sheriff  read  a  list  of  a  half-dozen  names,  all 
kinsmen  and  retainers  of  the  attorney.  Weighborne  and 
myself  were  not  included.  Marcus  accepted  service  and 
agreed  to  be  present  on  the  date  named.  It  was  not  until 
the  sheriff's  men  had  waved  their  hands  and  ridden 
away  that  he  turned  to  me. 

"  That  shows  Garvin's  effrontery,"  he  remarked  with 
a  laugh.  "  He  summonses  me  to  answer  in  his  own 
court,  for  meeting  with  hostility  the  attack  of  his  own 
assassins.  I'll  be  there — but  I  hope  to  give  him  a 
surprise." 


A  CAVALCADE  FROM  THE  LAUREL   233 

Weighborne  had  some  temperature  and  was  often 
restless  on  his  mattress  of  corn  shucks,  though  his  ami- 
ability held  steady.  One  evening  several  days  after  our 
ambuscade,  I  was  sitting  alone  and  morose  before  the 
open  hearth  while  he  slept.  Since  our  apartment  had 
been  a  sickroom,  the  evening  gatherings  had  been  sus- 
pended and  I  had  companionship  only  from  my  pipe  and 
thoughts.  The  thoughts  were  not  cheery  comrades  to- 
night. They  went  back  with  a  brutal  sort  of  insistence 
to  the  island  and  the  things  which  had  there  taken  root, 
to  grow  with  the  rank  and  lawless  swiftness  of  the 
tropics.  I  had  had  a  long  conversation  with  Marcus 
that  evening  in  which  he  had  outlined  his  plans  for  the 
examining  trials.  He  meant  to  strike  a  bold  and  unex- 
pected blow,  using  me  as  his  star  witness. 

All  that  the  county  judge  could  do  would  be  to  fix  a 
bond  for  answering  to  the  grand  jury,  but  the  circuit  court 
was  also  under  the  influence  of  the  dictator,  and  later 
when  the  trials  came  up  on  that  docket  the  prosecution 
would  become  persecution.  Garvin  would,  however,  fix 
a  light  bond,  he  thought,  in  the  preliminary  hearing 
and  would  expect  Marcus  to  await  the  main  issue  later. 
Therefore,  he  meant  to  forestall  the  attack  with  an  attack 
in  the  county  court.  His  enemies  would  rely  on  his  repu- 
tation as  a  supporter  of  law  and  order  to  make  his  war- 
fare a  warfare  within  the  law,  and  that  would  also  lull 


234  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEE  AM  S 

them  into  expecting  only  formal  and  preparatory  fencing 
at  the  hearing  of  next  Wednesday. 

"  When  I  take  the  course  which  I  mean  to  take,"  the 
attorney  had  assured  me,  "  it  will  be  in  the  nature  of 
exploding  a  bomb  and  may  precipitate  trouble.  If  I 
had  the  power  to  do  so  I  should  ask  for  a  militia  detach- 
ment to  be  present  and  preserve  order,  but  unfortunately 
such  a  call  can  come  only  from  some  civil  officer  such  as 
the  circuit  judge — and  he  is  not  disposed  to  act  on  my 
request.  I  shall  have  to  satisfy  myself  with  having  in 
town  every  anti-Garvin  man  whom  I  can  bring  there. 
Garvin  doesn't  want  a  general  battle  just  now.  He 
doesn't  want  to  attract  outside  clamor.  He  wants  to 
move  in  the  dark,  so  I  think  he  will  instruct  against  an 
outbreak  in  the  streets  or  court-room.  But  there  is 
one  thing  I  can  do,  and  that  I  am  arranging.  I  am  held 
in  some  respect  by  the  papers  of  Louisville  and  Lexing- 
ton, and  I  have  written  a  rather  full  statement  of  condi- 
tions here  and  asked  that  reporters  be  present  in  the  court- 
room on  Wednesday.  That  will  mean  that  whatever 
transpires  cannot  be  hushed  up.  Then  I  shall  move  to 
swear  Garvin  off  the  bench,  announcing  openly  that  his 
jackal  led  this  ambuscade  in  obedience  to  his  own  orders. 
That  will  be  my  surprise  and  my  proof  of  it  will  be 
your  testimony.  If  he  suspected  it  he  would  find  a  way 
to  silence  you.  Even  as  it  is  he  knows  you  recognized 


A  CAVALCADE  FROM  THE  LAUREL   235 

Dawson  and  you  must  be  cautious.  He  may  seek  to  keep 
you  out  of  court." 

At  length  I  slipped  out  and  stood  for  a  while  leaning 
against  a  post  of  the  porch,  although  the  air  was  sharp 
with  frost,  and  the  stars  pierced  coldly  through  the 
hard  steel  of  a  winter  sky.  My  other  skies  had  been 
softer. 

The  mountains,  under  a  young  moon,  stood  out  black 
and  forbidding;  frost  mists  hung  like  frozen  smoke 
on  the  lowlands.  From  somewhere  about  the  house 
came  the  nasal  singing  of  a  mountaineer  to  the  plunking 
of  a  tuneless  banjo.  His  voice  rose  and  quavered  and 
fell  with  more  care  that  his  words  be  distinct  than  that 
his  notes  be  true.  He  had  chosen  a  song  composed  by 
a  local  bard,  and  as  I  stood  gazing  off  across  the  sea 
of  moonlight  and  mist  he  alone  broke  and  tortured  the 
silence. 

"  Right  down  here  in  Adamson  coun-tee 

Where  they  have  no  church  of  our  Lord, 
Frank  Smith  sold  Pate  Art'b'ry  some  whis-key 
And  caused  him  to  get  shot  in  the  for'd." 

His  fellows,  in  all  solemnity,  took  up  the  ludicrous 
chorus  and  trumpeted  in  through  their  noses. 


236  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

"  Oh,  whis-key's  the  root  of  all  ev-il, 

It  fills  up  a  drunkard's  hell, 
So  why  not  vote  out  this  old  ev-il 
And   say    farewell,   whis-key,    farewell ! " 

I  smiled  as  I  thought  how  little  they  were  changed 
from  rude  retainers  in  an  old,  oak-raftered  hall  of  feudal 
England.  I  felt  as  remote  from  civilization  as  though 
I  were  living  behind  the  moat  and  draw-bridge  of 
some  embattled  baron.  In  such  a  place  anything  might 
happen. 

And  then  as  the  singers  fell  silent  again,  I  became 
aware  of  a  faint  and  distant  sound  of  voices.  The 
hound  which  lay  curled  upon  the  top  step  of  the  porch 
rose  and  sniffed  the  keen  air,  his  bristles  rising.  In  a 
moment  he  was  off  toward  the  road,  barking  blatantly. 

The  voices  became  more  distinct  and  I  moved  from  my 
position  in  the  moonlight  to  the  corner  of  the  house 
where  the  shadow  fell  black  enough  to  swallow  me.  As 
I  did  so  a  shuffling  of  feet  in  the  loft  told  me  that  the 
men  there  had  also  caught  the  sound.  The  approaching 
party  must  be  coming  to  this  house,  since  we  had  no 
neighbor  within  three-quarters  of  a  mile  and  the  road 
ran  out  and  ended  at  our  gate. 

Shortly  a  group  of  horsemen  came  into  view,  climbing 
the  hill  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  They  seemed  to  be 


A  CAVALCADE  FROM  THE  LAUREL   237 

riding  close  together,  knee  to  knee,  and  except  when  they 
crossed  the  intervals  of  the  moon's  spotlight  one  could 
see  them  only  in  a  massed  effect.  They  came  to  a  halt 
in  the  shadow  at  a  little  distance  from  the  gate. 

The  noiseless  opening  of  a  door  and  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  a  stealthy,  rifle-armed  figure  slipping  out  into 
the  shadow  of  the  kitchen  assured  me  of  the  preparedness 
of  the  impecunious  clansmen  who  played  watchdogs  for 
their  keep. 

Then  a  loud  and  affable  voice  from  the  road  gave 
greeting,  "  Hello,  Cal  Marcus  !  " 

There  was  no  immediate  reply.  Those  inside  were 
awaiting  a  more  conclusive  guarantee  of  pacific  intent. 
Seemingly  amicable  salutations  shouted  from  the  night 
had  before  now  brought  householders  into  the  excellent 
target  of  a  lighted  door,  where  they  had  lain  down  and 
died. 

"  Hello,  Cal  Marcus !  "  called  the  voice  again,  "  we're 
a-comin'  in." 

"Who  be  ye?"  challenged  a  voice  from  the  interior. 
"  Don't  come  till  we  know  who  ye  be." 

In  the  next  moment  I  started  violently  and  found 
myself  in  a  tremor  from  head  to  foot,  for  the  voice  which 
answered  the  question  was  a  woman's  voice,  and  it  was 
the  voice  of  rich  contralto  which  I  had  once  heard  and 
often  imagined. 


238  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

"  It's  I,  Frasces  Weighborne,"  was  the  response,  "  and 
some  gentlemen  who  rode  over  with  me  from  the  train." 
In  corroboration  came  other  voices,  deep  and  masculine, 
and  evidently  recognized  within  as  the  voices  of  friends. 
The  man  in  the  shadow  of  the  kitchen  came  out  from  his 
concealment  and  started  down  to  the  gate  swinging  his 
rifle  at  his  side.  A  door  opened  and  framed  the 
emaciated,  half-clad  figure  of  Galloway  Marcus.  "  Come 
right  in,  Ma'm,"  he  shouted.  The  group  rode  up  into 
the  light  and  dismounted. 

I  saw  her  come  in  at  the  gate.  The  moonlight  was 
full  upon  her,  and  I  stood  skulking  in  my  concealment  of 
shadow  like  a  thief,  held  fast  in  a  paralysis  of  jealousy 
and  worship. 

This  was  no  place  for  me.  I,  of  all  men  in  the  world, 
could  least  endure  or  be  endured  at  that  greeting  between 
Weighborne  and  his  wife  who  had  ridden  these  moun- 
tains to  be  with  him. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

I  GO  WALKING  AND  MEET  ENEMIES. 

HE  and  I  had  labored  across  those  twenty  miles  in 
a  wagon  by  daylight.  I  could  guess  what  it 
meant  at  night  and  in  the  saddle — and  she  had 
done  it!  She  had  come  alone,  except  for  such  chance 
escort  as  she  could  recruit  at  the  mining  town,  and  now 
as  she  walked  in  the  moon-bath  of  the  clearing,  there 
was  not  a  man  of  them  all  who  carried  himself  with  so 
free  and  unwearied  a  stride.  She  was  dressed  in  a  short 
riding-skirt  and  a  heavy  sweater.  Her  shoulders  swung 
back  as  free  as  an  Indian's,  and  I  knew  at  that  moment, 
and  without  doubt,  that  this  was  the  elusive  lady  of 
Europe  who  had  walked  out  of  Shepheard's  Hotel  the 
night  when  I  sat  on  the  terrace.  She  was  no  fragile 
ornament  of  drawing-rooms;  she  was  the  woman  who 
strode  like  a  goddess  and  for  whom  timidities  had  no 
existence.  She  was  not  then,  after  all,  I  exultantly 
reflected,  the  hot-house  orchid;  a  mere  whisper  and 
fragrance  on  waxy  petals.  She  was  the  splendid  flower 

239 


240  THE  POETAL  OF  DEE  AM  S 

I  had  conceived,  fit  for  God's  good  open  skies.  And  that 
thought  sent  a  rich  bugle  note  of  triumph  ringing  through 
the  chaos  of  my  misery. 

Of  a  surety  it  was  no  place  for  me.  In  what  was  to  be 
said  behind  that  door  I  had  no  part.  She  had  come 
splendidly,  but  she  had  not  come  to  me.  These  thoughts 
raced  tumultuously  through  my  mind,  and  when  she 
reached  the  steps  of  the  porch,  and  the  light  showed  the 
mud  and  dust  on  her  corduroy  skirt,  and  caught  the  gold 
of  her  hair  under  an  upturned  hat  brim,  I  bit  savagely 
at  my  lips  and  turned  away. 

I  sat  for  an  hour  or  more  in  the  shadow  of  a  fence 
line,  with  the  night  mists  rising  and  congealing  under  the 
pale  moonlight  like  the  tracery  of  frost  on  a  julep  mug.  I 
had  left  my  coat  inside  and  at  last  I  was  conscious  of 
being  deeply  chilled.  As  often  as  I  turned  my  eyes  out 
upon  the  mountain  and  forest  they  came  back  to  dwell  on 
the  rough  log  wall  that  separated  her  from  me.  I  felt 
the  drawing  of  the  magnet.  Inside  at  least  I  could  look 
at  her,  devour  her  with  my  eyes  though  I  might  not  open 
my  arms  to  her  or  even  my  lips  except  to  utter  common- 
places. But  then  the  thought  would  come  of  the  tender- 
ness of  the  reunion  which  was  perhaps  at  that  moment 
being  enacted  so  near  me,  yet  so  far  from  me,  and  at  the 
picture  I  ground  my  teeth.  Why  had  I  at  last  discovered 
her  to  be  the  sum  of  all  my  dreams,  and  more,  only  to 


I  GO  WALKING  AND  MEET  ENEMIES     241 

sit  outside  a  wall  of  logs  and  know  that  inside  she  was 
pouring  out  on  another  man  the  miracle  of  her 
tenderness  ? 

To-morrow  I  would  deliver  her  husband  over  to  her 
and  go  back.  Finally,  however,  I  realized  that  for 
to-night  the  Marcus  house  was  my  only  available  abode, 
and  that  by  this  time  the  first  affections  of  greeting 
would  be  over.  I  could  safely  return. 

Decency  and  civility  demanded  that  I  shake  her  hand 
and  give  an  account  of  my  rough  nursing.  The  cabin  was 
already  crowded.  What  shifting  and  rearranging  her 
arrival  might  necessitate  was  a  thing  to  which  I  should 
accommodate  myself  before  the  household  settled  down 
to  sleep.  Already  I  might  have  caused  inconvenience  by 
my  disappearance. 

As  I  drew  near  the  house,  the  cracks  of  the  shutters 
still  held  threads  of  light.  At  the  threshold  of  the  room 
where  I  had  left  Weighborne  I  hesitantly  knocked. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  low  voice — her  voice. 

I  opened  the  door  and  halted  in  astonishment. 

She  was  sitting  before  the  fire  in  the  rough  chair  which 
was  usually  occupied  by  the  old  woman  and  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  flaring  logs  and  the  white  ashes  below  them. 
She  was  leaning  forward  with  her  brows  slightly  drawn 
in  a  troubled  and  pained  expression.  The  blaze  threw 
shifting  dashes  of  carmine  on  her  cheeks  and  heightened 


242 

the  rose-madder  of  her  lips.  Her  slender  fingers  were 
intertwined  across  her  knees  and  one  foot,  cased  in  a 
riding-boot,  was  tapping  the  floor  in  evident  annoyance. 
Her  discarded  sweater  hung  over  the  chair  back  and 
against  its  white  background  her  graceful  slenderness 
was  clear  drawn  despite  the  loose  folds  of  a  blue  flannel 
shirt.  The  open  collar  revealed  the  arch  of  her  throat, 
and  though  it  was  now  circled  by  rough  fabric  instead 
of  pearls,  it  was  the  same  throat  and  neck  that  had  so 
imperiously  supported  the  head  of  the  island  goddess. 
But  the  deep  wistfulness  of  her  face  and  the  troubled 
rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  with  breathing  that  was  akin 
to  a  sigh  filled  me  with  wonder.  Then  the  complete  loveli- 
ness of  her,  the  yearning  for  her  swept  me,  and  I  had  to 
grip  myself  resolutely  for  control. 

I  must  have  let  myself  in  very  quietly,  for  she  did  not 
turn  her  head.  But  what  held  me  in  pause  and  anger  was 
the  discovery  that  Weighborne  lay  asleep  and  breathing 
heavily,  as  though  the  last  hours  had  brought  no  exciting 
incident.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had  slept  uninter- 
ruptedly? At  the  thought  a  wave  of  savage  resentment 
swept  me.  Had  she  come  to  me  I  should  have  arisen  to 
meet  her,  though  I  had  to  shake  off  the  sleep  of  death 
itself  and  push  my  way  through  the  heavy  weight  of 
the  grave. 

I  went  very  quietly  over  to  her,  without  speaking,  and 


I  GO  WALKING  AND  MEET  ENEMIES    243 

still  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes.  I  looked  down,  cursing 
myself  that  I  had  dared  to  suspect  she  could  burgeon 
only  in  the  affluence  of  satins. 

Slowly  her  gaze  came  up  and  on  seeing  me  she  gave 
a  little  start.  Then  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice  which  was 
a  trifle  cool. 

"  Do  you  think  your  welcome  is  very  prompt?  " 

I  stiffened  and  flushed.  Could  she  be  so  blindly  indif- 
ferent as  not  to  know  that  I  had  taken  myself  off  in 
misery  and  loneliness  only  because  I  was  not  cad  enough 
to  intrude  on  that  meeting?  And  now  she  permitted 
herself  to  grow  piqued  over  the  only  evidence  of  con- 
sideration it  lay  in  my  power  to  show  her. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  have  done  otherwise?"  I 
inquired. 

"  I  think  if  I  were  a  man,  and  a  woman  had  come 
across  the  mountains — "  she  halted  suddenly  and  colored. 
Then  she  added  in  an  altered  tone  of  flat  indifference,  "  It 
doesn't  matter." 

For  a  moment  I  stood  there  with  no  answer  to  frame. 
Her  words  bewildered  me.  So  she  might  have  spoken 
had  she  been  free  or  affianced  to  me.  I  was  standing 
above  her  looking  down  and  her  eyes,  with  the  same 
pained  wideness,  were  looking  at  some  picture  which  the 
flickering  flames  and  white  embers  held  for  her  imagina- 
tion. Then  I  understood.  Her  words  were  not  after 


244  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

all  really  addressed  to  me.  She,  too,  was  thinking  of  the 
man  asleep  in  the  huge  four-post  bed  who  had  not  awak- 
ened to  receive  her,  and  upon  me  was  falling  the 
expression  of  what  was  in  her  heart  because  I  was  the 
only  person  with  whom  she  could  speak.  Since  he  had 
not  aroused  himself  she  had  noticed  my  absence.  Had 
it  been  otherwise  I  should  have  been  forgotten.  It  was 
the  final  note  of  my  quaint  and  unprecedented  torture  that 
I  should  come  in  as  her  husband's  proxy  for  a  chiding 
that  should  have  been  his. 

For  the  next  few  moments  I  stood  helplessly  silent. 
Outside  I  heard  the  distant  baying  of  hounds  off  on  some 
ungoverned  chase.  She  sat  there  while  the  longings  in 
my  heart  welled  and  the  reason  in  my  brain  reeled,  until 
I  could  feel  only  one  thing — that  she  should  belong  to 
me;  that  my  arms  should  enfold  her — that  everything 
which  balked  that  end  was  a  monstrous  and  hideous 
injustice.  Then  as  a  drunken  man  may  suddenly  sink 
into  the  irresponsible  vagueness  that  carries  him  into 
total  irresponsibility,  the  tidal  wave  mastered  me.  There 
was  an  inarticulate  sound  in  my  throat;  something 
between  a  groan  and  a  sob,  which  must  have  startled  her. 
for  she  looked  suddenly  up,  and  as  she  did  so  I  dropped 
to  my  knees  beside  her  and  carried  both  her  hands  to 
my  lips.  She  flinched  back  with  a  sudden  little  start  of 
astonishment,  but  I  was  now  the  primitive  creature  bereft 


I  GO  WALKIXG  AND  MEET  ENEMIES     245 

of  sanity  and  I  gathered  her  to  me  and  crushed  her  in 
my  arms  and  covered  the  cool  softness  of  her  cheeks  and 
eyes  and  lips  with  my  kisses  until  they  flushed  hot  and 
crimson.  In  an  instant  the  thing  was  over.  A  wave  of 
returning  reason  swept  me  like  a  sluicing  from  a  bucket 
of  ice-water,  and  I  came  to  my  feet  sane  and  unspeak- 
ably mortified.  She  was  still  sitting  very  silent  and  her 
flushed  color  had  at  once  died  to  pallor.  Her  eyes  were 
wide  with  mystified  incomprehension.  Her  lips  moved, 
but  shaped  no  words.  I  tried  to  speak,  but  the  sense  of 
my  outrageous  conduct  stifled  me. 

She  could  not  understand  and  I  could  not  tell  her,  of 
all  the  torture  which  had  so  culminated.  After  this,  even 
should  the  powers  of  miracle  clear  away  every  other 
obstacle  between  us,  she  would  never  listen.  I  heard  my 
voice  groan  miserably,  and  with  no  further  effort  at 
explanation  or  apology,  I  walked,  or  rather  stumbled,  to 
the  peg  where  my  coat  hung  beside  the  door  and  let 
myself  out  into  the  night. 

Where  I  went  I  could  not  say.  I  was  tramping  along 
with  the  aimlessness  of  the  man  whose  steps  are  unguided. 
My  one  conscious  intention  was  to  keep  going,  to  kill  the 
rest  of  the  night  and  to  try,  as  best  I  might  to  bring 
myself  to  such  a  point  of  sanity  that  with  to-morrow 
morning  I  could  reurn  and  take  my  medicine  with  at  least 
the  dignity  of  the  condemned  criminal.  Vaguely  I 


246  THE  POETAL  OF  DKEAMS 

planned  self-destruction — after  I  had  faced  whatever 
ordeal  awaited  me  first  and  .1  had  met  the  obligation  of 
supporting  Marcus  in  court.  I  should  tell  the  two  of 
them  my  story  and  let  them  at  least  realize  that  before 
I  had  become  the  madman  and  the  brute  I  had  been 
through  such  things  as  might  craze  a  man.  Weighborne 
was  not  the  sort  of  husband  who  would  tamely  pass 
without  punishment  such  an  affront  to  his  wife  and  him- 
self. I  hoped  that  his  method  of  reprisal  would  be  sum- 
mary. That  would  bring  a  sort  of  relief,  yet  for  her 
sake  he  must  let  me  be  my  own  executioner,  that  it 
might  end  there. 

The  night  was  all  a-sparkle  under  the  moonlight,  and 
the  air,  spiced  with  frost,  went  into  the  lungs  with  the 
tingling  stimulation  of  needles.  I  tramped  endlessly 
along  the  road,  and  all  the  heat  of  my  paroxysm  cooled 
into  a  chill  of  self-contempt.  Still  I  had  no  definite  idea 
of  where  I  was  going — I  was  simply  plunging  ahead  in 
an  effort  to  burn  up  with  physical  exertion  the  restless- 
ness and  misery  that  possessed  me. 

It  was  only  when  I  had  walked  and  run  alternately  for 
hours,  frequently  halting  to  sit  by  the  roadside  and  curse 
myself,  that  I  realized  I  must  have  come  a  long  way  from 
the  house  of  Cal  Marcus,  and  that  the  night  must  be  well 
spent.  I  might  not  have  even  then  returned  to  a  real- 
ization of  outward  things  had  I  not  heard  the  sound  of 


i  GO  WALKING  AND  MEET  ENEMIES    247 

voices  and  the  patter  of  unshod  hoofs  on  the  roadbed. 
Some  roistering  riders  of  the  night  were  making  their 
late  way  home,  and  had  I  been  in  a  less  heedless  mood, 
Marcus'  frequent  injunction  and  the  things  I  myself  had 
seen  would  have  prompted  me  to  avail  myself  of  the  con- 
cealment offered  by  the  fence  row's  tangle.  But  these 
matters  were  all  far  from  my  thoughts,  and  I  merely 
turned  back  to  the  side  to  let  the  horsemen  pass.  I  was 
walking  with  my  head  downcast  at  a  point  where  the 
moon  bathed  the  road,  when  the  horses  behind  broke  into 
a  canter.  As  they  passed  me  one  of  the  riders,  with  a 
surprised  shout  to  his  companions,  wheeled  his  mount  to 
a  halt  just  before  me. 

"  Hold  on  thar !  "  sang  out  a  voice.  "  Let's  take  this 
feller  along  with  us." 

I  looked  resentfully  up  and  as  I  did  so  recognized  the 
figure  above  me  as  that  of  Curt  Dawson.  When  I  met 
his  eyes  I  met  also  the  glitter  of  a  leveled  pistol. 

I  was  in  no  mood  to  be  trifled  with  and  I  knew  that 
surrender  to  such  a  capture  meant  disaster  to  Marcus's 
plan  of  attack.  Their  purpose  was  to  dispose  of  a 
dangerous  witness,  and  since  my  testimony  was  to  be 
damning  to  Curt  Dawson,  he  above  all  others  had  a 
motive  to  serve  which  would  make  him  recklessly  des- 
perate. I  was  unarmed,  but  I  sprang  fonvard  meaning 
to  strike  up  the  weapon  or  force  him  to  shoot  without 


248  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

parley.  I  did  not  greatly  care  which  alternative  he  chose, 
but  I  had  no  mind  to  be  taken  alive.  Even  if  I  succeeded 
in  overpowering  Garvin's  gun-man,  there  was  still  his  ally 
to  reckon  with.  However,  neither  thing  happened.  Curt 
Dawson  merely  laughed  in  his  indolent  fashion  and 
jerked  his  horse  back  in  its  haunches,  sliding  from  the 
saddle  as  he  did  so. 

His  fellow-traveler  had  now  reinforced  him  and  the 
two  of  them  came  over  and  faced  me. 

"  Bud,"  said  the  gun-man  with  a  slow,  contemptuous 
drawl,  "  we  hain't  ergoin'  ter  kill  this  feller — leastways 
not  yit.  Them's  the  orders.  He  hain't  ergoin'  ter  pester 
us  inter  hit,  but  we're  goin'  ter  take  him  along  with  us. 
He  hain't  got  no  gun.  I  reckon  you  kin  put  up  yours." 
Then  he  turned  calmly  to  me  and  added,  "  Now,  stranger, 
I  low  yer  gwine  ter  come  along — or  get  the  hell  of  a 
lickin' — and  then  come  along  anyhow." 

The  second  mountaineer  slipped  his  revolver  back  into 
the  case  which,  mountain  fashion,  he  wore  strapped  to  his 
side  beneath  his  left  armpit.  Both  men  carefully  but- 
toned their  leather  holsters.  Meantime,  I  looked  from 
one  to  the  other,  gauging  their  distances,  and  made  up 
my  mind  to  attack  Dawson  first.  Then  I  heard  the  assas- 
sin calmly  direct,  "  Now,  Bud,  take  hold  of  him." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

I  FAIL  TO   RETURN    HOME. 

IT  was  precisely  as  one  might  have  given  the  command 
of  attack  to  a  dog,  and  under  the  sting  of  indignity, 
my  reason  once  more  slipped  from  me.  I  dived 
for  Dawson  and  saw  him  reel  backward  under  the  blow 
I  planted  on  his  sneering  mouth,  but  at  the  same  instant 
the  second  pair  of  arms  went  round  me  from  behind. 
Bud  had  "  taken  hold"  of  me  and  I  am  forced  to  say  he 
did  it  with  the  effective  enthusiasm  of  an  octopus.  I 
fancy  that  had  there  been  an  audience,  that  would  have 
been  pronounced  a  good  fight.  Sometimes  the  three 
of  us  swayed  from  side  to  side  of  the  road  in  a  triangular 
wrestling  match;  sometimes  we  rolled  about  and  clawed 
at  each  other  on  the  ground. 

The  moon  had  set  and  between  gasping  breaths,  out 
of  sweat-blinded  and  battered  eyes,  I  was  occasionally 
conscious  of  a  steel-blue  sky  in  which  the  stars  seemed 
to  dance  about  and  of  unsteady  silhouetted  trees.  But  I 

249 


250  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

was  more  sensible  of  the  cruel  ruttiness  of  the  road  on 
which  our  feet  slipped  and  our  ankles  twisted.  Curt 
Dawson  was  one  of  those  rough-and-tumble  battlers  who 
laugh  as  they  fight.  His  companion  kept  up  a  running 
string  of  muttered  curses,  but  both  of  them  were  strong, 
wolf-like  huskies  of  tireless  sinews  and  savage  determi- 
nation. There  was,  of  course,  no  fairness  of  combat,  but 
I  had  the  advantage  of  trying  to  kill  while  they  were 
fighting  to  take  me  alive,  though  with  odds  of  two  to 
one.  I  suppose  it  did  not  last  long,  but  it  seemed  to  me 
as  interminable  as  the  wars  of  Valhalla.  I  was  very  dizzy 
and  nauseated  from  their  kicks  in  the  stomach  and  blind 
from  blood  that  ran  down  out  of  a  cut  in  my  forehead — 
Curt  Dawson  wore  a  heavy  ring — still  I  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  that  "  Bud"  was  badly  lamed,  possibly 
from  a  twisted  ankle,  and  that  the  gun-fighter  himself 
was  far  from  fresh.  At  last  Garvin's  head  villain  came 
into  a  clinch  with  his  arms  about  me  and  under  his  vice- 
like  grip  I  felt  my  ribs  creaking.  Bud  thought  me 
whipped  and  had  drawn  off  for  a  moment  of  much-needed 
rest.  Then  I  got  my  hands  up  and  had  the  satisfaction 
of  feeling  my  fingers  close  on  Dawson's  throat.  The 
touch  of  flesh  in  my  grasp  seemed  to  rally  my  ebbing 
strength  and  I  closed  down  with  all  the  vicious  force  I 
could  muster,  until  my  nails  sunk  deep  under  the  skin  and 
his  own  arms  relaxed  and  his  agonized  breath  rattled  in 


I  FAIL  TO  RETURN  HOME  251 

his  windpipe.  We  went  down  locked  together,  but  my 
grasp  at  his  throat  held,  and  as  we  rolled  and  wallowed  I 
found  myself  on  top  and  gripped  the  harder.  I  knew 
only  one  desire — to  choke  the  last  breath  from  his  lungs, 
and  I  should  have  accomplished  it  had  not  the  second 
man  recognized  the  situation  in  time.  If  I  had  been 
fighting  sanely  I  might  have  risen  in  time  to  meet  him, 
and  in  his  condition  could  have  disposed  of  him,  but  I 
had  forgotten  his  existence  and  remembered  only  the 
enemy  upon  whose  chest  my  knee  was  pressing  and 
whose  life  was  fast  waning  under  my  ten  clinging  fingers. 
The  mania  to  kill  with  bare  hands  is  strong  when  it  has 
once  obsessed,  and  the  second  feudist  found  it  an  easy 
thing  in  my  absorbed  condition  to  throw  his  handkerchief 
about  my  neck  and-  strangle  me  first  into  helplessness  and 
finally  into  unconsciousness. 

I  came  to  my  senses  lying  at  the  roadside,  trussed  up 
like  a  pig  being  taken  to  market.  On  either  side  of  me 
lay  my  captors  stretched  at  full  length  and  resting,  though 
a  line  of  gray  over  the  eastern  peaks  bespoke  the  coming 
of  dawn,  and  a  thin  ribbon  of  rosy  pinkness  was  edging 
the  gray  at  the  margin  of  the  morning. 

When  I  endeavored  to  rise  Curt  Dawson  also  sat  up 
and  gazed  at  me.  His  face  wore  scars  that  gave  me  a 
moment  of  sincere  pleasure,  and  he  found  only  one  eye 
available  for  his  scrutiny.  His  open  shirt  showed  upon 


252  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

his  neck  the  deep-written  autograph  of  my  finger  nails, 
but  his  lips  wore  a  grin  as  he  reached  for  his  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat  and  placed  it  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  Well,  stranger,"  he  drawled  as  good  naturedly  as 
though  our  combat  had  partaken  only  of  elements  of 
friendly  sport,  "  I  want  ter  name  it  to  yer  that  you  ain't 
noways  er  cripple  in  er  fight.  I  told  yer  yer'd  haf  ter 
come  along,  an'  I  reckon  I  was  about  right.  Ef  yer  ready 
ter  ride  we'll  heave  yer  up  an'  hike." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  "  I  demanded. 

"  We'll  figger  on  that  by  an'  by,"  he  assured  me ;  "  the 
fust  thing  we  do  will  be  plum  friendly.  We'll  take  yer 
where  yer  kin  git  a  drink  of  licker." 

I  found  that  prospect  grateful,  for  from  head  to  foot 
I  ached  with  bruises  and  a  great  weakness  possessed  me, 
but  I  did  not  propose  to  submit  tamely  at  any  point. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  are  to  keep  me  out  of  court 
unless  you  kill  me,"  I  suggested,  "  and  if  you  are  going 
to  kill  me  you've  got  to  do  it  here  and  now." 

"  What  fer?"  he  queried  with  his  tantalizing  coolness. 
"  Ef  we're  ergoin'  ter  kill  yer,  I  reckon  we'll  pick  our  own 
time  and  place.  But  mebby  we  won't  haf  ter." 

He  rose  indolently  and  came  over  with  an  effort  to 
conceal  the  hobble  of  a  limp,  and  propping  my  bound  body 
against  his  knee  proceeded  to  wrap  his  blue  cotton  ban- 
dana around  my  eyes.  This  being  accomplished  to  his 


I  PAIL  TO  RETURN  HOME  253 

satisfaction,  the  two  of  them  loosened  my  ankles  and 
raised  me  to  one  of  the  saddles,  leaving  my  hands  fast 
bound,  and  passing  straps  around  my  legs.  Then  Dawson 
mounted  behind  me,  holding  me  in  place,  for  I  found 
myself  reeling  feebly  and  in  danger  of  collapse.  The 
other  man  led  the  horse  that  carried  the  double  burden 
and  we  started  on  a  journey  of  which  I  have  no  clear 
remembrance,  since  from  time  to  time  I  drifted  into 
a  condition  bordering  on  unconsciousness. 

It  was  full  daylight  but  still  very  early  when  they  took 
me  from  the  saddle,  and  of  course  I  had  no  idea  of  the 
road  by  which  we  had  come  or  the  country  through  which 
we  had  passed.  The  blindfold  was  not  removed  until  we 
had  entered  a  house  and  I  had  been  helped  up  a  steep 
stairway  and  laid  on  a  bare,  corn-shuck  mattress.  Then 
I  was  allowed  to  look  on  the  bare  walls  of  a  loft-like 
room.  The  mattress  was  stretched  on  the  floor;  a  tin 
basin  surmounted  a  box.  Otherwise  there  were  no  fur- 
nishings of  any  sort.  Dawson  was  grinning  down  on 
me  with  a  stone  jug  supported  in  the  crotch  of  his  right 
elbow  and  a  tin  cup  in  his  left  hand. 

"  Say  when,  stranger,"  he  invited  as  he  began  to  pour 
the  white  whiskey.  "  This  here  is  your  domicile  fer  ther 
present  time.  Yer  victuals  will  be  along  presently."  At 
the  door  he  paused  and  looked  back.  "  Ef  yer  needs  any- 
thing," he  added,  "  kick  like  hell  on  the  flo'.  They  ain't 


254  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

nobody  here  that  minds  a  little  noise.  The  latch  string 
hangs  outside,  but  yer  kin  see  fer  yerself  there  ain't 
none  on  this  side  the  do'." 

I  was  for  an  hour  satisfied  to  lie  quietly  on  the  mat- 
tress and  rest  and  after  they  had  brought  me  a  meal  of 
cold  bread,  greasy  bacon  and  coffee,  I  continued  inactive 
except  for  thinking.  The  trial  was  two  days  off  and  the 
least  hardship  I  need  expect  would  be  imprisonment  until 
it  was  over.  After  that  I  was  at  a  loss  to  forecast  their 
designs.  Even  then  I  could  not  be  set  free  to  tell  my 
story,  but  I  felt  sure  that  nothing  would  be  done  until 
the  arch-conspirator  and  dictator,  Jim  Garvin  himself, 
had  been  consulted  and  had  issued  his  imperial  decree. 

Shortly  before  noon  I  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and 
since  one  set  of  feet  came  with  the  creaking  caution  of 
a  person  who  did  not  wish  to  be  heard,  I  feigned  sleep  and 
breathed  with  a  deep  regularity  that  was  almost  a  snore. 
The  door  opened  and  Dawson  entered.  By  this  time  I 
knew  his  delicate  tread.  He  crossed  the  room  and  looked 
at  me  for  a  while,  bending  low  down  to  listen  to  my 
breathing.  I  did  not  stir  nor  open  my  eyes  and  after  a 
time  he  went  again  to  the  door  and  announced  in  a  care- 
fully guarded  voice,  "  He's  asleep  all  right  enough." 

There  was  no  reply,  so  my  straining  ears,  seeking  to 
do  duty  also  for  the  eyes  I  dared  not  open,  could  make 
no  identification,  but  my  face  was  turned  toward  the 


I  FAIL  TO  RETURN  HOME  255 

door  and  some  inner  sense  declared  to  me  with  insistent 
conviction  that  the  silent  visitor  was  no  other  than  the 
county  judge  himself.  Finally  Dawson  turned  and  I 
counted  his  steps  until  they  stopped,  as  I  presumed,  at 
his  companion's  side.  At  that  juncture,  and  with  infinite 
caution  I  stole  a  momentary  peep  between  closely  drawn 
lids,  and  the  brief  glimpse  revealed  the  broad  back  and 
shoulders  of  the  man  who  had  so  affably  chatted  with 
us  at  the  store  on  the  day  when  Weighborne  and  myself 
had  arrived.  Even  in  so  cursory  a  survey,  I  knew  that 
I  was  taking  a  decided  risk,  but  it  seemed  necessary. 

My  room  never  had  more  than  a  half-light,  which  fil- 
tered through  shutter  slats  so  slanted  that  I  could  see 
nothing  between  them  save  the  sky  and  a  few  stark 
sycamore  branches.  Consequently  I  lay  in  comparative 
darkness  while  they  were  etched  against  the  full  light 
of  the  partly  open  door.  Now,  should  I  regain  my  liberty 
— a  thing  highly  improbable — I  could  testify  that  Garvin 
himself  had  knowledge  of  my  imprisonment. 

Outside  my  door  there  was  silence  and  I  told  myself 
that  they  were  listening.  My  simulated  sleeping  breath 
stole  out  to  them  and  reassured  them,  for  finally  I  heard 
Garvin's  low  voice.  "  That's  the  man,"  he  said.  "  Just 
keep  him  here  till  I  let  you  know  what  to  do."  Then 
their  descending  footsteps  on  the  stairs  drowned  the 
words  and  I  was  once  more  alone. 


256  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

The  next  day  Dawson  and  his  understrapper,  "  Bud," 
whose  last  name  I  had  never  learned,  permitted  me  to 
accompany  them  to  the  lower  floor  of  the  house  and  a 
somewhat  larger  measure  of  freedom. 

Among  the  many  activities  of  his  young  life,  Mr.  Daw- 
son  had  at  one  time  enjoyed  that  expression  of  public 
confidence  which  is  dear  to  the  mountain  man.  He  had 
held  office  as  a  deputy  sheriff.  That  honor  had  been 
short-lived,  but  as  a  memento  of  his  days  of  power  he 
retained  a  very  good  pair  of  heavy  nickeled  handcuffs, 
and  when  I  was  made  free  of  the  lower  floor  these  orna- 
ments adorned  my  wrists.  The  connecting  chain  was 
long  enough  to  give  my  hands  a  limited  scope.  My  two 
jailers  and  myself  beguiled  an  hour  or  two  with  a  game 
of  casino,  and  I  was  able  to  shuffle  the  cards  when  the 
deal  fell  to  me,  but  the  manacles  were  sufficiently  hamper- 
ing to  give  them  a  sense  of  entire  security. 

I  welcomed  with  some  eagerness  an  opportunity  to 
visualize  my  environment,  since  there  was  now  only  one 
day  left  before  the  calling  of  the  Marcus  cases  on  the 
county  court  docket,  and  if  I  was  to  learn  anything 
which  might  facilitate  my  escape  it  must  be  shortly 
accomplished. 

I  presumed  that  I  had  been  brought  to  some  remote 
and  isolated  point  in  the  hills,  and  that  even  if  I  could 
rid  myself  of  handcuffs  and  guardians,  there  still  lay 


I  FAIL  TO  EETUEN  HOME  257 

ahead  of  me  the  problem  of  a  journey,  probably  a  long 
one,  through  an  unknown  country. 

I  had  still  much  to  learn,  and  one  of  the  things  which 
did  not  occur  to  me,  but  which  time  made  clear,  was 
that  Garvin  never  played  his  game  twice  in  the  same 
fashion.  He  had  known  that  my  disappearance  would 
wake  into  frantic  activity  the  smaller,  but  no  less  vigilant 
force  of  private  investigators  who  served  Carl  Marcus. 
All  the  inaccessible  hiding  places  in  the  heart  of  the  tim- 
bered hills  would  be  under  espionage.  He  accordingly 
decided  that  the  best  method  of  keeping  me  under  cover 
would  be  somewhat  similar  to  that  of  the  man  in  the 
story  who  knew  his  rooms  were  to  be  searched  for  a 
document  he  sought  to  conceal,  and  who  adopted  the 
method  of  putting  it  in  full  sight  on  the  mantel  shelf, 
v.'here  the  searchers  into  corners  and  secret  places  did  not 
take  the  trouble  to  open  its  envelope. 

I  had,  in  fact,  been  brought  to  a  cabin  which,  although 
it  nestled  in  a  deep  gorge  a  half-mile  from  the  public 
road,  and  was  invisible  to  passers-by,  was  still  less  than  a 
mile  and  a  quarter  from  the  town  itself.  These  things 
I  was  to  discover  on  the  morning  of  the  trial  when,  feeling 
secure  that  it  was  now  too  late  for  me  to  avail  myself 
of  the  information,  Curt  Dawson  yielded  to  the  tempta- 
tion of  informing  me  just  how  fully  I  had  been  stung. 

But  on  my  first  visit  to  the  ground  floor  I  saw  little 


258  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

that  added  to  my  knowledge.  For  months  the  place  had 
palpably  been  swept  by  winds  and  battered  by  hail,  ten- 
antless  and  dilapidated.  Indeed,  the  loft  where  I  had 
been  confined  was  more  habitable  than  the  lower  floor.  I 
at  once  recognized  that  they  meant  to  leave  the  cabin  with 
its  air  of  desertion  unchanged,  so  that  any  straggling 
investigator  would  pass  it  by  with  unaroused  curiosity. 
There  were  two  rooms,  and  the  walls  were  vulnerable  to 
windy  gusts  through  cracks  between  rotting  logs.  The 
windows  were  glassless  and  an  insufficient  heat  came 
from  a  fire  which  burned  feebly  on  an  open  and  smoke- 
blackened  hearth.  My  two  jailers  rose  constantly  to  fall 
back  shivering  on  the  jug  of  moonshine.  There  was  no 
sign  of  beds  or  furniture  of  any  sort.  Until  we  arrived 
there  the  house  had  been  abandoned. 

Dawson  permitted  me  to  walk  to  the  door  and  look 
out.  The  morning  was  gray  and  chilling.  A  slight  rise 
in  temperature  had  brought  cold  moisture  and  under  a 
raw  sky  the  hills  stretched  up  all  about  us  in  reeking 
veils  of  foggy  desolation.  I  saw  only  rattling  weed 
stalks  feeding  on  the  decayed  skeleton  of  what  had  been 
a  fence-line  before  the  days  of  abandonment,  and  a  basin 
choked  with  volunteer  timber,  around  which  the  hill- 
sides rose  like  a  spite- fence,  cutting  off  whatever  lay 
beyond.  A  small  front  porch  had  graced  the  cabin  in 
earlier  times,  but  of  that  there  now  remained  only  one 


I  FAIL  TO  RETURN  HOME  259 

upright,  and  a  few  broken  planks.  I  tried  to  locate  the 
stable,  but  there  was  no  evidence  of  any  outhouse  except 
some  charred  and  over-grown  timbers.  Palpably  the 
mountaineers  had  not  kept  their  horses  with  them.  If 
I  escaped  I  must  do  so  on  foot. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE   OFFER   OF    PAROLE. 

PERHAPS  the  disappointment  of  my  cursory  recon- 
noiter  showed  itself  in  my  expression.    Curt  Daw- 
son,  who  stood  with  his  arms  folded  and  his  loose 
length  draped   against   the   door- jamb,   grinned  at  my 
dolorous  face. 

"  Nice  place,  ain't  hit — f  er  a  murder  ?  " 
"  That's  about  all,"  I  responded  affably  enough.    I  had 
discovered  that  I  was  gaining  nothing  by  a  sullen  atti- 
tude and  I  am  afraid  that  I  was  even  yielding  to  a  cheap 
desire  to  impress  these  desperadoes  with  my  indifference. 
"  By  the  way,"  I  added,  "  what's  the  delay  about  ?  Why 
don't  you  finish  up  your  job  and  get  to  a  more  comfort- 
able place  ?  " 

Again  he  grinned.  "  Say,  stranger,"  he  questioned, 
"  ain't  we  treatin'  yer  pretty  well  ?  Was  you  ever  in  any 
other  jail  where  yer  got  better  handled?  I've  done  laid 
myself  out  ter  make  yer  visit  memorable." 

"  It  will  be,"  I  assured  him,  "  provided  I  live  long 

260 


THE  OFFER  OF  PAROLE  261 

enough  to  remember  it — and — "  I  reached  out  my  man- 
acled hand  for  some  of  his  "  natural  leaf"  and  loaded 
the  cob  pipe  with  which  I  had  been  presented,  "  when- 
ever I  pass  through  Frankfort  in  after  years,  Dawson,  I 
promise  to  drop  into  the  penitentiary  and  pay  you  a 
visit." 

"  No  Dawson  ain't  never  put  up  thar  yit,"  came  his 
quick  retort,  with  a  flash  that  showed  I  had  touched  his 
raw  nerve  of  fear,  but  the  smile  came  back  as  he  added, 
"  as  fer  me,  I  venerates  the  traditions  of  my  family." 

I  had  never  succeeded  in  trapping  this  unique  man- 
killer  into  any  admission  which  he  did  not  care  to  make, 
and  I  had  begun  to  understand  his  ability  to  take  the 
witness  stand  and  run,  unscathed,  the  gantlet  of  cross- 
examination.  Still,  I  could  not  refrain  now  from  putting 
a  leading  question. 

"  How  did  it  occur  to  you  to  bring  me  here  ?  Had 
the  judge  arranged  in  advance  that  I  should  be  kid- 
naped?" 

"  The  who  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Judge  Garvin." 

"  Aw !  "  his  laugh  was  hearty  and  prolonged.  "  So 
that's  the  idee  that's  bitin'  yer?  The  jedge  thinks  I'm 
in  Virginny.  In  fact,  stranger,  I  am  in  Virginny.  I 
just  seems  ter  be  here,  but  I  hain't.  I  brought  yer  here 
because  yer'd  done  been  firm'  off  yer  face  ter  the  effect 


262 

that  yer  thought  yer  saw  me  shoot  at  yer  from  the  laurel. 
I  didn't  low  ter  have  yer  testifyin'  ter  no  sich  false 
notion.  Hit  mout  injer  my  rep'tation  fer  peace  and 
quiet." 

Still  he  later  made  me  a  proposal  which  I  promptly 
rejected.  "  I  done  been  study  in'  right  smart,  an'  we 
ain't  doin'  no  good  fer  ourselves,  stayin'  round  here,"  he 
ventured.  "  I  done  sort  figgered  that  mebby  if  hits 
plum  agreeable  ter  you,  we  mout  take  yer  down  ter  the 
railroad  cars,  an'  let  yer  promise  to  leave  the  mountings 
and  keep  yer  face  shet." 

"  What  reason  have  you  to  suppose  that  I'd  keep  a 
promise  made  under  duress  ?  " 

"  I  got  two  reasons  ter  spose  hit.  In  the  fust  place  the 
minnit  yer  busts  yer  contrack  an'  comes  back  inter  this 
jurisdiction  I  gives  yer  my  word  I'm  goin'  ter  kill  yer 
thar  same's  I  would  er  houn'  dawg.  In  the  second  place, 
I'd  have  this  here — "  He  fumbled  awkwardly  in  his 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  paper  which  he  handed  me  to 
read.  It  was  an  affidavit  legally  drawn,  with  blank  spaces 
for  my  signature,  and  that  of  witnesses.  It  purported 
to  have  been  written  in  an  attorney's  office  in  Virginia 
and  to  be  duly  attested.  The  document  represented  me 
as  stating  voluntarily  that  I  had  seen  Curt  Dawson  (in 
Virginia)  and  had  realized  that  he  was  not  the  man  whom 
I  had  recognized  among  our  assailants.  I  was  leaving 


THE  OFFER  OF  PAROLE  263 

the  mountain  country,  so  I  was  asked  to  swear,  because, 
being  an  Easterner,  I  did  not  find  the  environment  con- 
genial. The  fantastic  bit  of  perjury  culminated  in  this 
highly  colored  peroration : 

"  I  feel  that,  in  intimating  that  the  said  Curt  Dawson 
made  said  or  any  attempt  upon  the  lives  of  my  party,  I 
have  been  guilty  of  an  unpardonable  injustice,  which  I 
deeply  deplore  and  for  which  I  feel  sincere  chagrin."  As 
I  read  that  passage  I  laughed  with  an  amusement  that 
was  not  feigned,  and  then  I  tore  the  paper  into  frag- 
ments which  I  scattered  among  the  ashes. 

Dawson  watched  me  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  We  don't  hardly  like  ter  kill  furriners —  "  he  said. 
!<  Them  folks  down  below  misunderstands  hit  an'  raises 
hell — but  I  reckon  ef  they  won't  take  nuthin'  but  killin' 
they  kin  git  kilt." 

So  they  had  planned  not  only  to  keep  me  out  of  court, 
but  to  present  my  affidavit  when  it  became  convenient :  an 
affidavit  purporting  to  have  been  made  by  me  across  the 
Virginia  line,  while  I  was  abjectly  fleeing.  Weighborne 
and  maybe  his  wife  as  well,  whom  I  had  already  grossly 
insulted,  would  hear  the  reading  of  my  Iscariot  betrayal. 
If  it  were  possible  for  them  to  think  more  contemptuously 
of  me  than  they  already  did,  this  would  be  the  precise 
climax  to  bring  about  such  a  result. 

Most  of  that  day  I  spent  below  stairs.     In  the  after- 


264  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

noon  Bud  left  the  cabin  and  shortly  after  returned  in 
great  excitement. 

"  Git  that  damned  feller  upstairs  quick,"  he  cautioned. 
"  A  couple  of  them  Marcus  men  is  stragglin'  round  here, 
an'  they  mout  come  in." 

Dawson  leaped  from  his  chair  as  though  electrified,  and 
his  face  showed  a  passion  of  anxiety.  He  sprang  toward 
me  and  seizing  my  shoulder  pivoted  me,  pointing  to  the 
stairs. 

"  Hustle,"  he  shouted  as  he  pushed  me  toward  the 
door.      "  Git   movin'."     Naturally   I   did   not   obey.     I 
scented  the  possibility  of  rescue,  so  I  laughed  at  him  and 
stolidly  stood  my  ground. 
"  This'  place  suits  me,"  I  said. 

With  the  swiftest  demonstration  of  the  art  of  weapon- 
drawing  I  have  ever  seen  he  brought  his  magazine  pistol 
from  its  holster  and  thrust  it  into  my  chest.  His  chin 
shot  belligerently  out  and  his  eyes  narrowed  into  blazing 
slits.  His  profanity  came  in  a  wild  torrent. 

My  attitude  was  still  indifference  as  to  whether  or  not 
I  were  killed.  New  developments  had  come  fast  since  I 
turned  from  the  door  of  the  room  where  Weighborne's 
wife  still  sat  before  the  fire  with  my  stolen  kisses  fresh 
upon  her  lips  and  temples,  but  there  had  not  been  a 
moment  of  forgetfulness.  I  saw  nothing  ahead  of  me 
worth  surrendering  for,  and  now  I  felt  that  parlous 


THE  OFFEE  OF  PAKOLE  265 

as  the  situation  was,  it  was  Dawson  rather  than  I  who 
was  frightened. 

"Why  don't  you  shoot?"  I  asked. 

With  a  foul  paroxysm  of  oaths  and  obscenity  he  threw 
the  pistol  aside,  and  crossing  the  room  caught  up  the 
broken  broomstick  which  served  in  lieu  of  a  poker.  I 
had  never  before  been  beaten.  It  was  not  pleasant, 
quite  aside  from  the  physical  pain.  And  as  to  that  phase 
of  it,  one  who  has  not  been  bludgeoned  with  bracelets  on 
his  wrists  may  underestimate  the  actual  bodily  torture 
of  the  experience.  At  all  events,  I  must  confess  that 
even  now  I  sometimes  awake  from  a  nightmare  in  which 
I  am  being  thrashed  with  a  broomstick.  I  tried  resistance, 
but  one  of  them  dragged  at  my  chain  while  the  other 
belabored  me,  until  in  a  few  moments  I  sank  down  in 
the  wormwood  bitterness  of  humiliation  and  defeat  and 
was  half-dragged,  half -kicked  up  the  stairs,  and  thrown 
into  my  room,  where  they  gagged  me  against  the  possi- 
bility of  outcry,  and  tied  me  so  that  I  could  not  move  from 
my  mattress  or  kick  upon  the  floor.  Dawson  himself 
remained  with  me.  They  had  none  too  much  time. 
Within  a  few  minutes  I  heard  the  long-drawn  halloo  of 
persons  without.  The  voices  were  friendly  and  the 
response  from  Bud  was  equally  cordial.  The  all-per- 
vading hypocrisy  of  these  mountain  hatreds  lay  over  and 
whitewashed  the  attitudes  of  both  parties.  As  they  came 


266  THE  POKTAL  OF  DBEAMS 

they  shouted  their  request  for  permission  to  enter,  and 
the  man  inside  responded  with  assurances  of  welcome. 
Those  who  were  arriving  were  coming  as  spies.  Those 
inside  were  bent  on  deceit. 

We  heard  them  calling,  still  from  afar,  that  they  wanted 
a  drink  of  liquor,  and  we  heard  Bud  shout  back  that  his 
jug  was  at  their  command. 

Then  feet  tramped  about  the  lower  floor.  Curt  Daw- 
son  stood  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  eaves  while  this 
interview  lasted  with  his  weapon  drawn,  and  never  once 
until  the  visitors  rode  away  from  the  house  did  his  eyes 
leave  the  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

When  Bud  came  up  after  they  had  gone  he  was  a  little 
pale  under  the  reaction  and  the  strain  of  anxiety  showed 
in  his  eyes. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  'lowed  them  fillers 
never  was  ergoin'  ter  leave  hyar." 

"  What  did  you  tell  'em  ?  "  demanded  Dawson  curtly. 

"  I  told  'em  I'd  had  a  little  business  round  hyar — let 
'em  think  it  was  somethin'  ter  do  with  er  still,  an'  said 
I'd  jest  spent  the  night  hyar  ruther  then  hoof  hit  back 
home." 

Dawson  jerked  his  head  toward  the  stairway.  "  Did 
they  say  anythin'  'bout  comin'  up  here  ?  " 

"  No.  They  kinder  eyed  them  steps,  but  they  didn't 
say  nothin'." 


THE  OFFER  OF  PAROLE  267 

For  a  moment  Garvin's  chief  henchman  walked  the 
floor,  then  he  snarled  out,  "  Did  they  ask  anything  erbout 
me?" 

"  Jim  Galloway  'lowed  that  somebody'd  done  seed  you 
in  this  country,  an'  I  said  no,  that  you  was  over  thar  in 
Virginny." 

Again  there  was  a  moment's  silence  after  which  Daw- 
son's  orders  came  in  quick  staccato  violence. 

"  Bud,  you've  got  ter  go  ter  town,  so's  they'll  believe 
thet  story.  Don't  come  back  hyar  no  more.  Them 
fellers'll  ride  back  before  sun-down.  They  suspicions 
somethin'  an'  they'll  jest  about  slip  back  ter  make  shore. 
I'll  take  this  feller  an'  lay  out  in  the  timber  tell  night. 
Here,  give  me  a  lift." 

The  two  of  them  raised  me,  still  gagged,  and  carried 
me  down  the  stairs.  Keeping  the  house  between  them- 
selves and  the  general  direction  of  the  road,  they  bore  me 
by  a  path  that  ran  along  a  cliff  to  a  dense  clump  of 
timber.  Then  the  lesser  villain  started  on  with  his 
ambling  step,  pausing  at  the  cabin  to  pick  up  the  jug 
which  was  to  corroborate  his  claim  that  his  business  had 
to  do  with  illicit  distilling.  He  also  stopped  indoors  to 
obliterate  all  traces  of  human  occupancy. 

It  was  perhaps  a  mark  of  respect  to  my  belligerency 
which  led  Dawson  to  leave  me  gagged,  but  it  was  a 
painful  compliment.  He  propped  me  up  so  that  I  might 


268  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

have  my  back  against  a  tree,  and  from  our  place  of  con- 
cealment- we  could  look  down  unseen  on  the  house.  This 
time  my  captor  did  not  favor  me  with  conversation.  He 
sat  silent  with  his  visage  black  and  snarling,  and  his  hand 
from  time  to  time  crept  involuntarily  toward  his  holster. 
As  for  myself,  I  was  distinctly  uncomfortable.  The  gag 
cramped  my  jaws  and  the  rope  about  my  ankles  was 
unnecessarily  tight.  But  during  the  three  hours  that  I 
had  to  sustain  this  position,  events  were  transpiring  which 
gave  a  certain  interest  to  the  situation.  The  men  who  had 
come  earlier  returned,  as  Dawson's  suspicion  had  proph- 
esied. They  shouted  as  before  and  when  they  received 
no  answer  they  approached  with  a  caution  that  carried 
me  back  to  childhood  stories  of  Indian  attacks  on  block 
houses.  Finally  they  entered  the  place,  and  Dawson  sat 
there  looking  on,  his  hands  wrapped  about  his  knees  and 
his  shoulders  shaking  with  silent  laughter,  as  he  surveyed 
their  elaborate  caution.  They  remained  in  the  house  for 
more  than  an  hour  and  then  reconnoitered  the  premises, 
at  one  time  passing  very  near  our  place  of  hiding.  Once 
more  my  custodian's  lean  hand  caressed  the  grip  of  his 
pistol,  and  his  thumb  slipped  down  the  safety  catch.  But 
in  the  end  they  rode  away  and  I  sorrowfully  recognized 
their  conviction  that  they  had  been  running  down  a  false 
clue. 

It  was  cold  and  quite  dark  when  Dawson  removed  the 


THE  OFFER  OF  PAROLE  269 

ropes  from  my  feet  and  ordered  me  to  walk  back  to 
the  house. 

That  night  I  slept  the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  and  it  was 
not  until  my  breakfast  arrived  the  next  morning  that  I 
awoke. 

My  captor  should  have  left  me  in  my  loft  that  day  and 
should  himself  have  remained  below  where  he  could 
watch  for  possible  intrusion.  But  he  was  overcome  with 
a  desire  to  talk  and  this  impulse  led  to  a  strategic  error. 
He  wanted  to  point  out  (now  that  he  felt  certain  that  I 
could  not  be  present  when  Marcus  called  his  witnesses) 
how  near  I  had  been  all  along  to  the  town.  He  described 
to  me  in  elaborate  detail  how,  were  I  at  that  moment  free, 
I  could  walk  in  twenty-five  or  thirty  minutes  to  the 
court-house  door  and  proceeded  to  give  me  satirical  and 
exact  directions.  He  felt  that  he  had  achieved  a  Machia- 
vellian victory,  and  it  pleased  him  to  watch  me  squirm 
with  a  sense  of  frustrated  possibilities. 

He  even  explained  that  while  the  clan  was  gathering 
he,  himself,  must  remain  away,  not  only  because  he  was 
taxed  with  guarding  me,  but  also  because  he  was,  as  he 
facetiously  insisted,  "in  Virginny  and  too  fur  away  to 
git  home." 

"  An'  it's  a  damn  shame,  too,"  he  confided,  "  because 
hit  shore  looks  like  there  might  be  fun  in  town  to-day. 
All  them  Marcus  people  is  gatherin'  there  an'  most  of  us 


270  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

fellers'll  be  on  hand.  Ef  somebody  gits  filled  up  with 
licker  that's  mighty  ap'  ter  be  a  frolic.  Thet  co'te  room 
hain't  agoin'  ter  be  no  healthy  place  nohow."  I  shuddered. 
I  was  thinking  that  the  woman  who  had  come  on  horse- 
back across  the  hills  to  join  her  husband,  would  probably 
be  with  him  in  that  court-room — if  he,  himself,  were  now 
able  to  ride. 

After  awhile  Dawson  took  me  up  stairs,  and  just  before 
he  closed  the  door,  I  pleaded  that  my  handcuffs  be 
removed,  since  one  wrist  was  badly  galled  and  lacerated. 
For  a  time  he  steadfastly  refused,  but  in  the  end  agreed 
to  loosen  the  bracelet  from  the  injured  hand,  and  leave  it 
dangling  to  the  other.  All  morning  I  had  been  complain- 
ing of  illness,  and  had  seemed  hardly  able  to  move  about. 
Indeed,  my  bruises  were  so  apparent  that  I  was  no  longer 
a  formidable  antagonist.  My  listlessness,  in  part  at  least, 
deceived  him,  and  after  the  anxiety  of  yesterday,  when 
his  enemies  were  so  close  on  his  trail,  he  found  himself 
in  a  state  of  reaction  and  buoyant  over-confidence.  He 
produced  the  key  and  fitted  it  into  the  lock  of  the  fetter, 
but  before  he  turned  it  be  paused  with  a  wink  of  self- 
satisfaction  to  say,  "  Jest  a  moment,  stranger,  I'll  make 
sure  of  you  fust." 

The  handcuffs  were  of  that  type  which  tightens  with 
pressure  as  the  lock  tumbler  slides  over  a  series  of 
notches.  With  such  an  arrangement  the  wrist  can  be 


THE  OFFER  OF  PAROLE  271 

squeezed  and  pinched  in  a  refinement  of  torture  that  is 
disabling.  Dawson  now  clasped  his  fist  around  the  brace- 
let which  he  meant  to  leave  locked. 

"  Now  ef  you  tries  to  make  a  false  move,"  he  volun- 
teered, "  I'm  goin'  ter  squeeze  this,  an'  ef  I  has  ter 
squeeze  hit  I  ain't  ergoin'  ter  loosen  hit  no  mo'."  I  knew 
him  rather  well  by  this  time  and  had  no  reason  to  doubt 
his  truthfulness  of  intention,  so  I  merely  nodded  my 
enforced  acquiescence.  I  was  bracing  every  nerve  and 
muscle  for  the  possible  opportunity  of  the  next  moment, 
and  at  the  same  time  was  attempting  to  appear  totally 
innocent  of  any  threatening  intent. 

When,  with  his  one  free  hand  the  mountaineer 
attempted  to  turn  the  key,  something  about  the  lock 
stuck,  and  after  a  mumbled  oath  of  impatience,  he  bent 
over  and  took  both  hands  to  the  task.  That  was  his  one 
incautious  moment,  but  I  stood  docile  while  he  removed 
the  manacle,  and  then  as  he  straightened  up,  loosely 
holding  the  chain,  I  sprang  back,  wrenching  it  from  his 
grasp. 

He  was  instantly  after  me,  but  I  had  put  enough  space 
between  us  to  swing  the  metal  weight  over  my  head. 

He  saw  that  this  time  it  was  a  fight  to  the  death  and 
instead  of  crowding  in  upon  my  blows  retreated  one  step 
and  thrust  his  hand  under  his  armpit  to  the  holster.  But 
it  was  all  too  momentary  even  for  his  artistic  draw.  With 


272  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

the  chain  wrapped  about  my  right  hand  and  the  left 
bracelet  swinging  free  I  lashed  viciously  out  for  his  face 
— and  landed.  He  dropped  like  a  felled  tree  and  as  he 
collapsed  the  pistol,  half-freed  from  its  case,  rattled  on 
the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MY  DAY  IN  COURT. 

HE  was  not  unconscious,  but  dazed  and  groggy,  and 
the  blood  was  flowing  from  a  nasty  cut  peril- 
ously close  to  the  left  temple.  I  was  on  him 
and  pinning  him  against  the  planks  before  he  could 
recover  himself.  I  picked  up  the  fallen  key,  liberated  my 
right  hand,  then  closing  his  manacle  about  his  own 
wrist,  I  dragged  him  over  to  an  upright  post  and  passing 
the  chain  about  it  fastened  his  other  hand.  I  had  learned 
something  about  gagging  now,  so  by  the  time  he  had 
recovered  his  full  senses,  he  found  himself  hitched  quite 
securely  to  the  unplaned  pillar,  bootless,  trouserless  and 
speechless — but  above  all  else  astonished.  I  took  one 
mean  scrap  of  vengeance  which  was  unnecessary.  I  went 
to  the  grated  shutters  and  threw  the  key  to  the  handcuffs 
out.  Then,  donning  his  clothes  before  his  eyes,  since  my 
own  would  have  proclaimed  me  a  stranger  in  these  parts, 
I  turned  and  made  my  way  down  the  stairs,  once  more  at 

273 


274  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

liberty.  I  did  not  vouchsafe  him  a  word  of  farewell 
nor  turn  my  head  to  look  back,  though  I  heard  his  feet 
pounding  the  floor  in  a  frenzy  of  rage  and  futile  struggle. 
Of  course,  I  had  possessed  myself  of  his  pistol  as  well 
as  his  hat,  boots  and  trousers. 

If  I  had  needed  any  disguise  beyond  these  clothes  it 
would  have  been  provided  for  me  by  the  ragged  growth 
of  beard  on  my  face  and  the  unkempt  hair  that  had  not 
felt  a  comb  since  I  left  the  roof  of  Cal  Marcus.  I  smiled 
to  myself  as  I  made  my  exit  by  the  broken  porch  and 
thought  what  his  reflections  at  the  moment  must  be.  He 
was  doubtless  recalling  his  own  explicit  directions  for 
reaching  the  court-house  door.  It  was  now  between 
nine  and  ten  o'clock.  If  I  hurried  there  might  still  be 
time. 

The  town  which  I  had  seen  only  once  before  came  into 
view  as  soon  as  I  had  reached  the  high  road  and  made 
the  first  turn,  but  I  was  terrified  to  see  in  the  distance 
two  horsemen  jogging  along  in  leisurely  approach.  I 
scrambled  across  the  rail  fence  and  lay  close  to  the  earth 
waiting  for  them  to  pass  and  grudging  the  flight  of  each 
priceless  minute.  As  they  came  nearer  I  heard  a  whining 
voice  raised  in  an  attempt  at  song. 

"  Right  down  hyar  in  Adamson  Countee — 
Where  they  have  no  church  of  our  Lord — " 


MY  DAY  IN  COUKT  275 

carroled  one  of  the  horsemen,  and  I  joyously  recognized 
the  young  man  who,  on  the  night  of  Mrs.  Weighborn's 
arrival,  had  slipped  out  into  the  shadow  of  Cal  Marcus' 
kitchen  to  reconnoiter. 

In  another  moment  I  had  been  given  a  place  behind 
the  mountain  boy,  and  soon  the  three  of  us  were  ambling 
through  the  squalid  square  of  the  county  seat.  Though 
groups  of  men  stood  everywhere,  and  eyed  each  other 
suspiciously,  no  one  recognized,  in  the  ragged  stubble- 
faced  wreck  astride  a  doubly  loaded  horse,  the  kidnaped 
witness. 

They  did  not  take  me  to  the  court-room,  but  made  me 
dismount  at  the  back  door  of  Cal  Marcus'  law  office, 
just  a  stone's  throw  away  across  the  narrow  street.  Mar- 
cus, himself,  came  to  me  there  in  response  to  a  hurried 
summons.  He  listened  with  no  show  of  expression  or 
emotion  and  at  the  end  of  my  recital  gave  me  brief 
instructions,  and  reduced  a  part  of  my  evidence  to  the 
form  of  an  affidavit. 

"  Both  crowds  are  out  strong,"  he  told  me  succinctly ; 
"  Garvin's  gang  has  been  instructed  to  start  no  trouble. 
Whether  that  order  will  stand  when  I  spring  my  surprise 
I  don't  know.  It  will  certainly  be  a  severe  test  of 
discipline.  They  feel  quite  safe  about  you,  and  they 
mustn't  suspect  your  escape.  Watch  that  window  in 
the  court-room  and  when  I  appear  and  raise  my  hand 


276  THE  POETAL  OF  DREAMS 

to  pour  a  glass  of  water  come  into  court.  Say  nothing 
except  in  answer  to  my  questions." 

With  those  instructions  he  left  me  and  as  he  crossed 
the  alley-like  space,  he  passed  between  thick  clusters  of 
mountain  men  who  formed  a  practical  cordon  about  him. 
I  had  perhaps  an  hour  to  spend  alone  with  my  eyes 
against  the  narrow  slit  of  the  slightly  raised  sash.  I 
could  see  the  lounging  crowds  and  recognize  the  tensity 
of  conditions.  There  was  an  assumption  of  nonchalance 
which  sat  upon  these  men  with  the  stamp  of  spuriousness. 
Lines  of  shaggy  horses  hitched  along  two  sides  of  the 
square  told  of  many  long  rides.  Swift,  furtive  glances 
cast  backward  and  forward  indicated  the  nerve  strain 
and  caution  of  hostile  forces  mingling  with  a  show  of 
cordiality;  each  bent  on  giving  no  offense,  but  each 
watchful  and  tightly  keyed  for  defensive  action. 

A  group  of  several  young  men  entered  the  enclosure 
of  the  court-house  together,  and  from  their  clothes  and 
appearance  I  recognized  them  as  the  reporters  from 
Louisville  and  Lexington.  With  the  eye  of  the  outside 
world  upon  him;  with  every  utterance  from  the  bench 
being  recorded  by  these  scribes  against  whom  he  dare 
not  let  a  hand  be  lifted,  the  head  of  the  murder  syndicate 
must  rely  absolutely  on  chicane.  He  must  play  the  fox's 
game  and  must  not,  under  any  provocation,  show  the 
wolf's  teeth. 


MY  DAY  IN  COURT  277 

So  the  stage  was  being  set,  and  I,  waiting  there  in 
concealment,  was  to  afford  the  climax  of  the  play. 

After  an  interminable  time  the  lean,  Lincoln-like  face 
of  Cal  Marcus  appeared  at  the  dusty  window  of  the 
court-room  and  I  saw  him  pour  a  tumblerful  of  water 
from  the  broken  pitcher.  At  the  same  instant  one  of  the 
waiting  clansmen  threw  open  the  door  to  announce, 
"  They're  callin'  yer  in  co'te." 

I  needed  no  urging.  My  cue  had  come.  They  closed 
around  me  in  a  square  and  escorted  me  to  the  court- 
room door  and  as  I  went  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  deputy 
sing-songing  my  name.  I  even  imagined  that  in  his 
tone  was  conviction  that  the  summons  would  meet  with 
no  response. 

In  order  to  make  clear  the  exact  effect  of  my  appear- 
ance, I  must  go  back  and  summarize  briefly,  from 
accounts  later  given  me  by  Marcus  and  Weighborne,  the 
occurrences  of  that  half-hour  which  preceded  my  calling 
to  the  witness  stand. 

Garvin  had  appeared  in  his  court-room  with  his  usual 
affability.  He  had  even  paused  to  shake  hands  with 
Weighborne  and  express  regrets  for  his  unfortunate 
"  accident."  His  Honor  had  announced  that  he  would 
prefer,  in  default  of  objection,  passing  all  criminal  cases 
to  the  foot  of  the  docket,  first  disposing  of  several  mat- 


278  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

ters  of  probate  and  minor  importance.  To  this  Marcus 
had  agreed. 

When  the  reporters  appeared  the  judge  was  surprised, 
but  his  wily  composure  had  betrayed  no  evidence  of 
chagrin,  and  he  had  halted  affairs  to  chat  with  the  pencil- 
wielders  while  his  bailiff  provided  them  with  a  table  and 
chairs  just  below  the  rostrum. 

Then  had  come  the  call  of  the  cases  against  the  alleged 
murderers  of  Rat-Ankle,  and  the  attorney's  prompt 
motion  to  swear  Garvin  off  the  bench.  In  support  of  his 
motion,  Marcus  launched  into  a  dispassionate,  but  unsoft- 
ened  charge  that  the  judge,  himself,  had  been  the  chief 
instigator  of  the  ambuscade.  Garvin  had  listened  with 
growing  amusement. 

"  Whose  affidavits  have  you  to  file,  Mr.  Marcus  ?  "  he 
purred  with  unruffled  composure. 

"  That  of  myself—" 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Also  that  of  Mr.  Deprayne." 

"  I've  done  been  informed,"  drawled  the  Court,  "  that 
Mr.  Deprayne  was  seen  leaving  for  the  Virginia  line  some 
days  back,  and  that  he  told  several  people  he  was  going 
home.  If  I'd  known  of  his  plans  I'd  certainly  have  held 
him  as  a  material  witness,  but  unfortunately  it's  too  late 
now." 


MY  DAY  IN  COUKT  279 

"  Here  is  his  affidavit,"  responded  Marcus.  "  I  submit 
it  to  Your  Honor  in  support  of  my  motion." 

Garvin  took  the  paper  and  read  it  slowly.  It  was  in 
general  terms  and  did  not  make  clear  to  him  that  it  had 
been  so  recently  penned.  After  the  perusal  h*  delivered 
himself  slowly. 

"  Learned  counsel  has  made  some  mighty  grave  charges 
against  this  Co'te ;  counsel  has  been  led  astray  by  personal 
feelin'.  The  Co'te  must  protect  its  own  dignity.  The 
Co'te  sees  no  reason  to  regard  this  paper  as  genuine, 
unless  Mr.  Deprayne  himself  will  state  that  he  swore  to 
it.  The  Co'te  regrets  that  it  can't  produce  that  witness 
for  the  learned  counsel.  The  Co'te  wishes  only — "  here 
he  glanced  significantly  at  the  press  table — "  to  have  the 
full  facts  brought  out." 

"  Will  Your  Honor,"  suggested  Marcus,  "  instruct  the 
sheriff  to  call  Mr.  Deprayne  ?  " 

Garvin  had  looked  up  with  an  expression  of  surprise 
and  then  he  had  smiled.  "  Mr.  Sheriff,"  he  instructed, 
"  call  Mr.  Deprayne." 

After  that  there  had  been  a  silence.  While  Garvin 
went  through  the  formality  of  waiting  to  hear  the 
announcement  "the  witness  does  not  answer,"  he  bent 
over  the  desk  and  once  more  exchanged  compliments  with 
the  reporters.  These  scribes  had  been  sent  to  expose 


280  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

him  and  he  was  bent  on  weaving  about  them  the  spell  of 
his  personality.  Then  it  was  that  I  entered.  From  the 
door  where  for  an  instant  I  halted,  I  took  in  the  stained 
clapboard  walls,  carved  over  with  crude  initials ;  and  the 
dingy  benches  full  of  men  in  jeans  and  hodden  gray.  I 
caught  my  breath  as  a  dash  of  color  struck  my  eyes  and 
I  recognized  back  of  the  gaunt  standing  frame  of  Marcus, 
the  seated  figures  of  Weighborne  and  the  lady  who  had 
been  so  strangely  important  in  my  life.  My  cheeks 
flushed  and  bracing  back  my  shoulders,  I  walked  down 
the  center  aisle,  dust-stained,  with  four  days'  growth  of 
beard  on  my  face,  and  one  eye  still  discolored.  As  I 
came,  I  was  conscious  of  a  murmer  of  astonishment  ris- 
ing incredulously  from  the  benches,  and  of  an  excited 
shuffling  of  feet. 

Called  out  of  his  conversation  by  this  sound,  Garvin 
raised  his  face,  still  wreathed  in  its  bland  and  smiling 
suavity — and  our  eyes  met.  For  an  instant  I  think  he 
did  not  recognize  me.  I  must  have  been  a  rather  ludi- 
crous and  unprepossessing  figure  of  a  man,  and  possibly 
it  was  the  very  obvious  scars  of  battle  on  my  disfigured 
countenance  that  first  told  him  my  identity.  At  all  events, 
the  change  that  for  an  unguarded  interval  crossed  his 
florid  face  was  startling. 

The  smile  died  instantaneously  and  he  leaned  forward 
to  stare  at  me  as  at  some  apparition.  He  quickly  recov- 


MY  DAY  IN  COURT  281 

ered  himself,  but  the  reporters  caught  the  tableau  of  his 
astonishment  and  put  a  paragraph  into  their  stories  which 
was  the  preface  to  history-making  in  Adamson  County. 

I  took  my  seat  on  the  witness  stand  and  raised  my 
hand  to  be  sworn,  not  daring  to  meet  the  eyes  of  the 
woman  who  sat  at  the  attorney's  elbow,  though  I  felt 
her  gaze  upon  me.  Then  I  heard  the  cold  modulation  of 
Marcus's  voice. 

"  Mr.  Deprayne,  state  your  name,  age  and  place  of 
residence."  I  did  so. 

"  Do  you  aver  that  an  affidavit  charging  Judge  Garvin 
with  conspiracy  to  murder  and  suppress  evidence  was 
made  by  you,  and  that  it  is  true  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

The  shuffling  of  brogans  and  boots  had  died  out.  The 
fall  of  a  pin  might  have  been  heard  at  the  ends  of  the 
room.  Every  Garvin  heeler  and  every  Marcus  adherent 
was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  seat.  Hands  crept  furtively 
to  holsters.  There  was  a  general  gasp  of  surprise,  then 
as  by  a  single  impulse  a  number  of  men  at  one  side 
near  the  back  rose,  and  across  the  aisle  another  group 
came  silently  to  its  feet.  The  factions  stood  taut  and 
motionless,  eying  each  other  with  hatred.  Marcus  did 
not  for  an  instant  resume  his  questioning  and  the  utter 
silence  was  as  oppressive  as  the  stillness  that  goes  ahead 
of  a  cyclone.  I  knew  what  it  meant,  as  every  one  in  the 


282 


room  knew.  The  feud- factions  were  crouching  for  a 
spring.  In  another  moment  the  ceiling  might  ring  and 
rattle  with  the  cracking  of  pistols  and  reek  with  the  stench 
of  burnt  powder.  The  mountain  territory  has  annals  of 
such  holocausts. 


E 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

BEING  LAUGHED  AT. 

VERY  one  sat  very  still  lest  an  excited  movement 
or  gesture  precipitate  the  storm.  From  my  place 
on  the  slightly  elevated  witness  chair  I  had  a  full 
view  of  the  scene  in  all  its  ominous  tensity.  It  was 
as  though  breathing  had  not  alone  stopped,  but  all  living 
animation  had  for  the  second  been  suspended.  The  body 
of  men  had  been  fixed  as  though  photographed.  An 
incautious  start  or  the  sweep  of  a  hand  pocket-ward,  and 
the  outburst  would  be  inevitable. 

There  were  three  exceptions  among  those  whom  I 
may  term  non-combatants.  One  reporter  began  edging 
down  behind  the  table.  Weighborne  unostentatiously 
shifted  his  position  so  as  to  place  his  bulky  shoulders 
between  Frances  Weighborne  and  the  crowd,  and  She 
with  an  impatient  shifting  declined  his  shielding  and  sat 
steadily  looking  to  the  front.  She  was  pale,  as  I  suppose 
we  all  were,  but  perfectly  composed. 

283 


284  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

Then  Marcus  wheeled  and  faced  the  rear  of  the  room, 
deliberately  turning  his  back  on  the  enemies  who  might 
kill  him  as  they  had  killed  his  partner.  With  both  hands 
raised  above  his  head  and  his  thin,  cuffless  wrists  stretch- 
ing out  of  his  threadbare  sleeves,  he  stood  for  a  tense 
moment  in  silence.  His  rugged  countenance  was  black 
with  the  vehemence  of  feeling  and  his  deep  eyes  were 
burning. 

"Sit  down!"  he  thundered.  He  said  no  other  word, 
but  as  he  ripped  out  that  crisp  and  brief  command  he 
swept  both  arms  and  hands  downward,  and,  like  hypnotic 
subjects  answering  the  gesture  of  the  demonstrator,  his 
clansmen  dropped  into  their  seats.  Garvin  took  the  cue. 
He  pounded  on  his  desk  with  the  gavel.  "  Order  in  the 
court-room,"  he  shouted,  and  his  henchmen  also  subsided 
into  their  benches. 

A  deep  breath  of  relief  swept  over  the  place.  The 
crisis  was  averted.  Garvin  beckoned  Marcus  and  the 
opposing  counsel  to  his  side.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  said 
coolly,  "  the  boys  seem  a  little  excited.  Unless  there  is 
an  objection  I'm  goin'  to  adjourn  co'te  for  a  half-hour, 
and  then  keep  this  room  clear  of  spectators."  But  the 
moment  of  peril  had  passed  and  when  I  reached  the 
square  with  the  attorney,  who  hastily  spirited  me  out  by 
the  back  door,  I  saw  the  two  elements  mingling  with  a 
semblance  of  entire  peace. 


BEING  LAUGHED  AT  285 

Marcus  took  me  directly  to  his  office  where  we  were 
busied  with  a  supplemental  and  more  exact  affidavit,  and 
I  did  not  see  the  Weighbornes.  I  knew  that  any  meeting 
must  be  a  most  unhappy  occasion,  and  until  this  matter 
was  disposed  of  I  was  willing  to  postpone  that  final  clash. 
We  were  shortly  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  county 
attorney,  who  announced  that  at  the  reconvening  of 
court  he  would  move  to  dismiss  the  cases.  He  said  he 
realized  that  there  could  be  no  conviction  and  would  not 
risk  precipitating  a  conflict.  Marcus  could  hardly  refuse 
to  allow  his  clients  to  go  free,  and  so  for  the  time  he  had 
to  accept  that  surrender  and  reserve  his  ammunition  for 
later  effectiveness. 

To  the  Marcus  house  we  rode  in  cortege.  I  had  not 
intended  running  at  all,  but  when  I  came  out  of  the  law 
office  I  found  that  Weighborne  had  been  much  fatigued 
and  had  already  started  back  with  another  guard,  and  I 
could  hardly  run  away  without  facing  the  two  of  them. 
Marcus  too,  insisted  that  I  must  return,  even  if  only  for 
a  day.  Much  of  our  business  remained  unfinished,  and 
I  inferred  from  his  attitude  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
inevitable  reckoning  which  I  must  face  at  the  hands  of 
my  business  partner.  We  started  late  and  our  small  army 
arrived  after  nine  o'clock.  It  was  again  a  night  of 
sparkle  and  starlight  and  frost.  We  learned  that  supper 
had  been  saved  for  us  and  the  attorney  and  I  ate  it  in 


286  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

silence.  The  Weighbornes  had  not  waited  for  us.  I 
quite  understood  that  they  might  not  care  to  break  bread 
with  me,  and  yet  I  was  puzzled,  because  in  that  paralyzed 
moment  in  the  court-room  when  I  had,  for  the  only  time 
during  the  day,  looked  full  in  the  lady's  eyes,  I  had  seen 
no  anger  in  them.  I  had  almost  fancied  that  her  lips  half- 
shaped  a  smile.  But  she  was  a  remarkable  woman,  and 
whatever  her  feeling,  she  might  be  magnanimous  enough 
and  big  enough  at  such  a  moment,  when  we  were  all  in 
equal  danger,  to  lay  aside  for  the  nonce  her  just  resent- 
ment. Now  we  should  meet  again  as  though  that  had 
not  happened,  and  I  had  no  hope  of  seeing  her  smile  on 
me  again. 

Probably  she  had  retired  and  I  should  not  have  to 
meet  her  until  to-morrow.  I  rose  from  the  table  and 
turned  to  Marcus. 

"Where  do  I  sleep  to-night?"  I  inquired. 

"  Your  same  place,  sir,"  he  answered,  and  when  I  had 
said  good-night  I  turned  and  walked  along  the  porch  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  which  served  jointly  as 
parlor  and  bedroom. 

Once  more,  precisely  as  on  that  other  night,  I  halted 
in  surprise.  Indeed,  it  might  have  been  the  other  night, 
except  that  Weighborne  lay  where  he  had  thrown  himself 
down  fully  dressed  across  the  big  bed.  But  just  as  before, 
he  was  sleeping,  and  just  as  before  She  sat  before  the 


BEING  LAUGHED  AT  287 

fire  alone,  in  much  the  same  attitude.  On  her  face  was 
the  same  trace  of  wistful  loneliness. 

I  could  not  escape  the  feeling  that  this  was  in  reality 
a  part  of  the  other  evening — that  it  had  been  momentarily 
interrupted  and  that  all  which  had  transpired  since  I 
had  opened  this  same  door  in  this  exact  way,  and  seen 
this  precise  picture,  was  only  the  figment  of  disordered 
imagination.  But  it  was  now  too  late  to  turn  back,  and 
after  all  there  was  nothing  to  gain  by  deferring  the 
reckoning.  The  three  of  us  were  here,  and  it  would 
take  only  a  moment  to  wake  the  sleeping  man. 

I  closed  the  door,  and  my  heart  began  the  wild  beating 
that  meeting  her  must  always  bring.  As  I  started  across 
the  room  she  looked  up  and  rose.  I  halted  where  I 
stood,  waiting  for  her  to  speak.  This  evening  she  wore 
a  very  simple  gingham  dress,  and  the  chill  of  the  room 
had  led  her  to  add  the  sweater.  For  a  breathing  space 
we  stood  there,  she  as  slender  and  youthful  as  a  school- 
girl ;  I  as  awkward  and  disheveled  as  a  bumpkin, 
with  my  head  hanging  shamefacedly — awaiting  sen- 
tence. 

Then  to  my  total  bewilderment  she  smiled  and  held 
out  her  hand. 

Had  she  stricken  me  down  with  a  lightning  bolt  as 
the  savages  thought  she  had  stricken  down  the  profaning 
native,  I  should  have  been  less  astonished.  I  stood  there 


288  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

unable  to  understand  such  forgiveness,  and  while  I 
waited,  she  spoke. 

"  Now,"  said  the  voice  which  had  been  ringing  in  my 
heart  ever  since  I  had  last  heard  it,  "  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  explain  things,  or  are  you  still  to  be  the  man 
of  mystery?" 

How  could  I  explain  things?  How  could  I  make  a 
commencement?  And  yet  it  was  just  that  which  I  had 
come  to  attempt. 

"  If  I  can  explain  at  all,"  I  said,  very  miserably,  "  it 
will  be  in  one  word — madness." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  she  questioned.  In  her  eyes  was  the 
whimsical  challenge  that  had,  on  the  previous  occasion, 
swept  me  away  from  my  moorings.  The  question  that 
I  had  asked  myself  once  before  came  back  to  my  mind. 
Could  it  be  that  my  goddess  was  so  far  from  my  ideal 
that,  after  all,  what  had  occurred  needed  no  explanation? 
I  would  not  admit  such  a  possibility,  and  yet  her  next 
words  seemed  to  confirm  it. 

"  When  I  first  came  here,"  she  mused  reflectively  and 
only  half-aloud,  "  you  stayed  outside  for  an  hour,  and 
then  you  disappeared.  Of  course  you  were  a  prisoner, 
but  to-day  you  had  the  opportunity  to  see  us.  You  didn't 
— and  yet — "  she  flushed  deeply,  and  I  knew  that  her 
thoughts  too  were  going  back  to  the  moment  when  I 
Vad,  without  words,  avowed  myself  so  savagely. 


BEING  LAUGHED  AT  289 

"  I  stayed  out  there  that  night,"  I  said  bluntly,  "  be- 
cause I  could  hardly  be  an  interloper,  when  you  had 
ridden  these  infernal  hills  to  be  with  him — "  I  jerked 
my  head  savagely  toward  the  bed.  Then  I  went  doggedly 
on,  determined  that  since  she  had  forced  me  this  far  we 
should  hereafter  stand  in  the  certain  light  of  understand- 
ing. "  I  also  stayed  out  there  because,  as  it  happens, 
I'm  a  fool.  I  couldn't  endure  witnessing  a  reunion 
between  yourself  and  your  husband."  It  seemed  to  me 
that  she  should  first  have  called  on  me  for  other 
explanations. 

At  the  last  word  her  face  clouded  with  an  expression 
of  absolute  bewilderment,  and  her  eyes  widened  as  she 
gazed  at  me. 

"  My — my  what?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Your  husband,"  I  repeated.    "  Mr.  Weighborne." 

She  contemplated  me  as  though  I  were  a  new  and 
rather  interesting  variety  of  maniac,  then  her  laugh  was 
long  and  delicious.  Her  clouded  eyes  cleared  and  danced 
like  skies  in  which  the  sun  has  suddenly  burst  through 
rain. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  finally.  "  I  understand  now."  Once 
more  her  face  grew  grave  and  she  added  with  a  catch 
in  her  voice. 

"  And,  thank  God,  I  do  understand." 


290  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

i 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,"  I  implored,  "  tell  me  what  you 
understand!  As  for  me,  I  understand  nothing." 

"Why,  you  totally  unspeakable  idiot,"  she  explained, 
as  though  she  had  known  me  always,  and  as  though  we 
had  long  been  close  comrades,  "  I  haven't  any  husband — 
yet.  That's  my  brother.  Didn't  you  know  that  ?  " 

I  stood  at  gaze,  dazed,  stupefied,  open-mouthed ;  every 
thing  that  denotes  the  gawky  fool.  Then  I  dropped  fer- 
vently on  my  knees  at  her  feet  and  shamelessly  seized  her 
hands  in  mine  and  kissed  them.  She  made  no  effort  to 
release  them  and  I  crushed  them  greedily  while  my  tongue 
could  find  no  words,  until,  as  I  afterward  leirned,  her 
rings  cut  into  the  flesh. 

"  But,"  I  stammered  finally,  "  you  are  Frances  Weigh- 
borne.  His  wife  is  Frances  Weighborne.  Bob  Maxwell 
told  me— " 

She  laughed  again,  and  Weighborne's  heavy  breathing 
became  almost  a  snore.  After  all,  first  impressions  are 
best.  Weighborne  was  a  capital  fellow,  one  could  not 
help  liking  him. 

"  Correct,"  said  the  lady  indulgently,  as  though  she 
were  teaching  a  small  boy  his  primer  lessons.  "  I  am 
Frances  Weighborne.  My  sister-in-law  was  also  christ- 
ened Frances  in  baptism,  and  acquired  the  surname  of 
Weighborne  in  matrimony.  There  may,  so  far  as  I 


BEING  LAUGHED  AT  :291 

know,  be  various  other  Frances  Weighbornes.  We  have 
never  copyrighted  the  name." 

"  Oh,  my  God ! "  I  groaned  helplessly.  "  What  an 
unspeakable  imbecile  I've  been — but  you're  wrong,  dear- 
est, you  are  the  only  one." 

"Do  you  think  it  necessary  to  swear  about  it?"  she 
inquired.  "  And  are  you  now  quite  certain  that  I'm  the 
right  one?" 

"  There  isn't  any  time  to  swear,"  I  assured  her,  "  there 
is  so  infinitely  much  to  say — but  not  here.  Come  out 
under  the  stars,  where  one  can  breathe.  Give  me  five 
minutes.  Unless  I  speak  now  I  shall  die  of  suppressed 
emotion.  All  my  life  I've  been  a  supposedly  extinct 
volcano.  I'm  no  longer  extinct."  I  halted  my  rush  of 
words ;  then  added,  "  Yes,  you're  the  right  one."  I  rose 
and,  still  holding  her  hands,  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  At 
the  door,  with  my  hand  on  the  latch,  I  paused. 

"  No,"  I  exclaimed,  hardly  realizing  that  I  was  speak- 
ing aloud.  "You  open  it.  In  the  dream  it  is  always 
you  who  open  the  door  into  the  other  world." 

She  wheeled  and  looked  me  in  the  eyes,  her  own  pupils 
wide  and  incredulous. 

"Do  you  have  it,  too?"  she  demanded  breathlessly. 
"  Do  you  dream  my  dream  ?  Do  I  come  to  you  in  some 
vague  danger  and  lead  you  through  a  door  ?  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  bolt,  just  as  I  had  so  often 


292  THE  POETAL  OF  DEEAMS 

seen  her  do  in  my  vision,  and  we  stepped  together  out  into 
the  glory  of  the  frost  and  moon. 

"  As  you  are  doing  now,"  I  answered ;  then  with  a  new 
wonder  I  demanded,  "  But  tell  me,  how  in  Heaven's 
name  could  you  dream  of  me  before  you  knew  me?" 

She  laughed  mockingly. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  vouchsafed,  "  if  you  make  yourself 
very  agreeable  I  may  tell  you." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

HOW    IT    ENDED — AND   BEGAN. 

THE  railings  and  uprights  of  the  porch  were  strips 
of  jet  against  a  world  swimming  in  blue  and 
silver  gray.  The  planks  creaked  under  our  feet. 
A  confusion  of  saddles  and  farm  gear  hung  against  the 
log  walls.  The  tin  basin  stood  on  its  accustomed  shelf. 
The  world  of  magic  was  jumbled  with  the  commonplace. 
I  led  her  over  to  the  corner  where  the  eye  could  gather 
in  the  widest  vista.  She  stood  there  before  me  very 
upright  and  slim  and  her  eyes  held  mine  as  frankly  as  a 
child's  might  have  done.  I  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment 
more,  then  my  arms  went  out  and  encircled  her,  and  I 
talked  very  fast  and  very  low. 

"  I  may,  at  times,  seem  extremely  abrupt,"  I  confessed, 
"  but  I'm  not.  I've  worshiped  you  upon  a  coral  reef  and 
I've  made  love  to  you  through  endless  days  and  nights 
with  stars  for  my  witnesses  much  larger  than  these — and 
softer.  And  now  I've  found  you — I've  found  you,  and 

293 


294  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

it  doesn't  matter  what  you  say,  because  I  shall  never 
again  let  you  go." 

She  tilted  her  face  upward  and  her  eyes  were  dancing 
as  she  quoted,  "  '  Nobody  asked  you,  sir.'  " 

She  stood  there,  facing  me,  within  the  circle  of  my 
arms,  with  her  chin  as  proudly  tilted  as  though  she  were 
not  surrendering,  and  with  the  old  incomparable  smile 
lingering  on  her  lips. 

And  as  I  gazed  at  her  in  the  witchery  of  the  moon, 
the  utter  improbability  of  it  all  dawned  upon  me,  until 
I  felt  that  a  moment  would  bring  awakening  and  the  old 
gnawing  despair.  The  expression  was  that  which  I  knew 
so  well,  and  she  seemed  no  more  and  no  less  real  than 
she  had  been,  looking  out  from  the  mate's  chest,  with 
the  circle  of  mahogany-skinned  savages  sitting  silent 
before  her  shrine. 

That  I  had  loved  her  was  inevitable.  It  was  written, 
but  that  was  the  lesser  part.  Here  she  stood  looking  at 
me  out  of  eyes  that  were  accepting  my  love  without 
question.  Why  did  she,  without  even  the  siege  of  a  long 
wooing,  so  permit  me  to  step  into  the  temple  of  her 
life,  as  naturally  as  though  it  were  the  shrine  of  the 
coral  island  where  I  belonged  as  high-priest  and  demi- 
god? 

She  had,  before  to-night,  met  me  only  once,  and  then 
I  had  been  the  churl,  brusquely  rebuffing  her  sweet  court- 


HOW  IT  ENDED— AND  BEGAN  295 

esy.  Yet  she  had  ridden  across  the  hills,  and  something 
sang  to  me  that  it  was  to  me  she  had  ridden,  though  she 
may  have  called  it  coming  to  her  brother.  Why  was  it? 
Had  I  really  conjured  her  soul  to  me  by  wishing  it 
across  the  world?  Had  supreme  forces  compelled  us 
both,  so  that  preliminary  details  were  superfluous 
between  us? 

However  that  might  be,  the  gracious  smile  died  slowly 
on  her  lips  to  a  seriousness  far  sweeter,  and  as  she  looked 
into  my  face  her  eyes  widened,  and  dropped  all  conceal- 
ment until  I  was  gazing  into  her  soul. 

When  a  woman  meets  the  eyes  of  a  man  in  that  fashion 
he  ceases  to  question,  and  wishes  only  to  do  reverence. 
It  is  like  rolling  back  the  waters  of  the  sea  and  revealing 
the  wonders  of  the  deeps.  For  it  is  decreed  that  the 
eyes  of  a  woman  are  given  her  in  defense,  to  hide  behind 
their  dance  and  sparkle  the  things  which  lie  beneath — 
and  to  disarm.  When  once  they  have  opened  in  the 
miracle  of  self-revelation  and  surrendered  their  secret, 
one  must  be  unworthy  who  feels  himself  worthy  of  such 
a  manifestation. 

And  the  secret  I  read  there  was  that  she  loved  me 
beyond  all  doubting.  It  mattered  no  longer  how  the 
wonder  had  come  to  pass.  That  was  a  mere  point  of 
god-craft.  It  had  happened,  and  the  stars  were  singing. 

I  dropped  on  one  knee  and  lifted  her  hand  to  my  lips. 


296  THE  PORTAL  OF  DEEAMS 

Later,  I  sketched  rapidly,  agitatedly,  the  story  of  the 
coming  of  her  portrait  to  the  island,  of  its  place  on  the 
chest  and  its  subsequent  worship.  I  told  her  of  meeting 
Keller  on  the  steamer  and  Maxwell  in  New  York.  I 
summarized  the  chain  of  evidence  which  had  to  my  mind 
proved  her  to  be  Mrs.  Weighborne.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  I  told  it  badly,  but  that  was  of  no  consequence,  since 
back  of  my  broken  narration  was  the  pent-up  rush  of 
emotion,  and  to  her  this  seemed  important.  Nor  did 
my  story,  so  fantastic  that  I  hardly  expected  her  to 
accept  it  without  proof,  seem  to  surprise  her. 

"  And,"  I  concluded,  "  I  am  going  to  build  you  a 
new  temple  which  will  make  the  Taj  Mahal  a  tawdry 
mosque,  for  every  block  and  rafter  will  be  love,  and  each 
year  we  live  I  shall  add  new  minarets  of  worship — and 
not  only  five  times  each  day  but  a  hundred,  its  muezzin 
shall  call  me  to  prayer." 

Her  eyes  were  glowing,  and  her  laugh  trembled. 

"  I  came  quite  a  long  way,"  she  told  me,  "  to  make  you 
say  that,  but  after  all  you  have  done  it  very  nicely." 

"  But,"  I  admitted  after  a  long  pause,  "  I  don't  yet 
understand — not  that  it  matters  now — but  why?  That 
word  is  beating  at  my  brain — why  in  the  names  of  all 
the  gods  should  you  care  ?  " 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  she  indignantly  countered. 

"  You  have  known  me,"  I  said  blankly,  "  a  few  days 


HOW  IT  ENDED— AND  BEGAN  297 

— and  I  should  have  imagined  that  I  made  a  sorry 
impression." 

She  laughed  again. 

"  I  have  known  you  always,"  she  replied. 

I  shook  my  head  wonderingly. 

"  Listen,"  she  commanded.  "  Once  upon  a  time — that's 
the  way  all  fairy  stories  start — I  saw  you.  You  didn't 
notice  me  much.  I  was  just  a  kid,  but  I  fell  in  love  with 
you.  To  be  exact,  it  was  ten  years  ago  this  month." 

There  was  no  end  to  wonders.  All  the  loose  threads  of 
coincidence  were  being  plaited  into  a  single  cable,  and 
the  cable  was  my  life  line. 

"  As  I  grew  up  I  met  a  lot  of  men  and  they  insisted  on 
saying  nice  things  to  me ;  but  they  were  all  things  of  one 
kind  and  that  wasn't  the  kind  I  wanted — besides,  you  see, 
I  was  waiting.  I  knew  that  some  day  you  would  come 
and  that  if  you  had  anything  to  say  it  would  be  different. 
I  compared  them  all  with  you.  It  wasn't  just  a  girl's 
romantic  foolishness.  There  was  destiny  in  it.  You  know 
the  Moslem  text — '  man's  fate  is  about  his  neck.'  You 
had  no  chance  to  escape  me." 

"  I,  too,  knew  it  was  written,"  I  told  her,  "  but  I  was 
afraid  we  should  meet  too  late.  When  I  saw  you  at  Lex- 
ington I  thought  it  was  too  late." 

"  I  was  never  afraid  of  that,"  she  affirmed.  "  Some- 
times I  have  known  that  you  were  in  danger — and  later 


298  THE  PORTAL  OF  DREAMS 

I've  known  that  you  escaped.  Then  there  was  the  dream 
— the  one  dream  about  the  door  that  came  over  and  over. 
...  At  times  it  seemed  that  you  were  very  near.  Once 
at  Cairo  I  felt  that  I  was  going  to  meet  you  around  some 
corner  or  in  some  bazaar — but  I  didn't." 

"  You  might,  if  you  had  turned  your  head,"  I  declared. 
"  Did  you  by  any  chance  lose  a  diary  at  Cairo?  " 

This  time  it  was  she  who  was  surprised. 

"  I  lost  one  somewhere,"  she  acknowledged ;  then  as 
she  colored  divinely  she  demanded,  "  You  didn't  find  it, 
did  you  ?  You  didn't  read  those  fool  things  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  foolishness,"  I  quoted.  "  There  was  destiny 
in  it."  And  then  I  made  full  confession. 

"  I'm  glad  you  wrote  it,"  I  added.  "  I  owe  that  diary 
something  and  I  want  all  my  debt  to  be  to  you." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  then  she  looked  up  again 
and  confronted  me  once  more  with  a  charge  of  stupidity. 

"  And  you  read  that,  and  knew  what  football  game  it 
was,  and  yet  you  never  recognized  yourself !  What  are 
your  brains  made  of,  anyway?  " 

How  could  a  man  reply  to  such  a  sublime  absurdity  as 
that?  I  groaned. 

"  In  the  diary  you  wrote  of  an  apotheosis,"  I  con- 
fessed. "  How  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  logical  could  I 
connect  myself  with  this  admirable,  impossible  superman  ? 
You  failed  to  give  the  name." 


HOW  IT  ENDED— AXD  BEGAN  299 

She  looked  at  me  and  laughed. 

"  The  man  is  also  modest,"  she  observed. 

"  Of  course,"  I  demurred,  "  it's  great  to  see  you  tread- 
ing the  clouds,  with  ideals  for  your  playmates.  More- 
over, it's  appropriate;  but  I'm  down  here,  you  know, 
earthbound  and  extremely  mortal.  If  we  are  to  walk 
together  you  must  come  down  and  join  me." 

"  I'll  take  you  up  with  me,"  she  hospitably  asserted, 
and  though  since  then  she  must  have  discovered  many 
times  that  she  had  draped  her  cloth  of  gold  upon  a  lay 
figure  and  had  made  a  plumed  and  mailed  knight  of  a 
failure  and  an  inconsequent,  yet  she  has,  with  gallant 
stubbornness,  refused  to  admit  it. 

"  Dearest,"  I  said  very  humbly,  "  I  have  been  incon- 
ceivably boorish,  and  worse.  How  could  you  bring  your- 
self to  forgive  it?" 

"  Because,"  she  answered,  "  I'm  a  woman — and  inquisi- 
tive. I  knew  how  you  felt,  and  I  wanted  to  find  out  why 
you  acted  so  horridly  at  Lexington." 

"  I  was  trying  very  hard  not  to  tell  you  how  I  felt," 
I  admitted. 

"  You  didn't  have  to  tell  me — in  words,"  she  laughed. 
"  You  told  me  in  a  hundred  other  ways,  that  were  just 
as  plain." 

"  Then  the  only  part  of  my  story,"  I  said,  a  little  crest- 
fallen, "  which  is  new  to  you  is  the  information  that  you 


300  THE  PORTAL  OP  DBEAMS 

were  a  goddess  and  I  a  high  priest,  out  there  in  the  South 
Seas?" 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  new  at  all,"  she  ruthlessly  enlight- 
ened, "  I  knew  that,  too." 

"Is  there  anything  you  don't  know?"  I  inquired. 
"  What  gift  of  prophetic  vision —  " 

"  There  wasn't  any  vision  about  it,"  she  interrupted. 
"  I  got  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Keller  the  day  before  you 
reached  Kentucky.  I  guess  when  you  get  back  to  New 
York  you'll  find  one  from  the  captain.  His  wife  wrote  to 
tell  me  you  were  coming.  That  was  why  I  got  a  headache 
and  stayed  at  home  that  night. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  forearm.  My  sleeves  were 
uprolled  to  the  elbows. 

"  Dearest,"  she  exclaimed  in  sudden  anxiety,  "  you're 
cold ! "  I  suppose  I  was,  but  I  had  not  known  it. 


It  has  been  some  time  now  since  I  have  written  in  the 
diary  which  had  its  birth  under  such  strange  circum- 
stances. The  narrative  went  into  a  pigeon-hole  because  I 
have  been  too  busy  living  to  think  of  reflecting  upon 
life.  It  was  a  device  for  moments  of  emptiness  and  in 
later  times  also  for  moments  of  extraordinary  jubila- 
tion, but  since  the  last  pages  were  scribbled  there  has  been 
enough  of  celebration  in  merely  living  out  the  days.  Yet 


HOW  IT  ENDED— AND  BEGAN  301 

now  I  must -add  a  postscript,  so  that  some  time  He  may 
have  the  full  record  before  him.  He  is  my  little  son. 

He  is  teaching  me  a  great  many  things  and  finding  in 
me  a  willing  pupil.  When  I  first  walked  out  into  the  pub- 
lic ways  after  his  entrance  to  the  stage  whereon  I  hope  he 
will  be  cast  in  a  worthy  part,  I  walked  differently.  I 
walked  with  the  pride  of  an  emperor.  Not  the  pride  of 
arrogance.  I  needed  no  car  of  ivory  and  bronze  with  cap- 
tives marching  fettered  at  its  wheel.  I  needed  no  slave 
to  whisper  in  my  ear,  "  Remember,  Caesar,  thou  art  but 
a  man."  I  was  filled  with  a  new  graciousness  and  wished 
to  be  generously  courteous  to  all  men,  yet  that  desire  was 
born  of  a  sense  of  vast  superiority.  I  had  found  the 
meaning  of  life;  the  secret  of  which  the  gulls  shrieked 
in  mating-time  around  the  rocks  of  the  island — though 
then  my  ears  were  deaf  to  its  significance. 

She  has  minted  from  the  precious  metal  of  her  soul  a 
life  which,  with  the  other  lives  of  his  day,  will  form  the 
mosaic  of  his  times.  I  have  the  prospect  before  me  of 
new  miracles  as  that  new  life  unfolds.  I  feel  the  exalta- 
tion of  being  undeservedly  linked  with  something  vastly 
greater  than  myself.  I  made  an  awkward  effort  once  to 
put  some  part  of  this  idea  into  words,  but  Frances  only 
laughed.  To  her  it  is  all  quite  natural.  Her  only  com- 
ment was  that  he  is  as  much  mine  as  hers,  which  was  a 
flattery  that  even  my  egotism  could  scarcely  assimilate. 


302  THE  POKTAL  OF  DREAMS 

We  have  not  named  him  yet,  but  an  idea  struck  me  a 
day  or  two  ago  while  I  was  sitting  at  my  down-town  desk, 
and  I  straightway  called  her  up. 

"  I  have  just  thought  of  a  name,"  I  said.  "  I  want  to 
call  him  Francis  Ra-Tuiki.  Of  course,"  I  hastened  to 
add,  realizing  that  the  silence  at  the  other  end  of  the 
wire  threatened  protest,  "  of  course  we  can  dignify  it  with 
highly  unphonetic  spelling,  if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  judiciously  reflected.  Then  with 
a  sudden  afterthought  she  added,  "  That  might  possibly 
do  for  a  middle  name.  I  have  already  decided  upon  the 
first." 

I  wonder  what  name  she  has  in  mind — and  she  had 
just  finished  telling  me  that  I  had  a  full  half-interest  in 
that  kid ! 

A  railroad  now  runs  into  Adamson  County  and  the 
new  order  is  replacing  the  old.  My  wife  and  I  and  our 
brother  went  down  on  the  first  train  run  over  the  new 
line.  The  people  had  gathered  to  see  the  spectacle,  and 
incredible  as  it  may  seem,  there  were  among  them  some 
who  looked  for  the  first  time  on  a  locomotive.  Old  Mrs. 
Marcus,  a  little  more  withered  and  monkey-like,  was 
there,  and  as  she  contemplated  the  marvel  she  could  only 
murmur  in  wonderment,  "  Well,  Provi-dence!  " 

Galloway  Marcus  no  longer  rides  in  a  hollow  square, 
but  goes  openly  to  court  to  defend  the  railway's  damage 


HOW  IT  ENDED— AND  BEGAN  303 

suits.  Yet  now  that  the  law  is  becoming  adequate,  he 
will  never  have  the  opportunity  to  turn  it,  as  his  weapon 
of  reprisal,  against  Jim  Garvin.  Retribution  came  to  the 
head  of  the  murder  syndicate  with  grimmer  and  more 
appropriate  drama  than  Marcus  had  planned.  The  judge 
fell  behind  his  own  counter,  riddled  with  bullets  bought 
from  his  own  shelf,  and  fired  by  the  hand  of  his  own 
chief  henchman  and  jackal. 

Though  one  of  the  last  of  the  terrorized  juries  sat  in 
the  box,  to  the  end  that  the  slayer  "  came  cl'ar,"  it  is  now 
Curt  Dawson  who  goes  sunken-eyed  and  body-guarded, 
searching  the  shadows.  Shots  from  the  laurel  are  few 
— but  occasional  even  now — and  Garvin's  boy  is  nearing 
manhood.  At  all  events,  Garvin's  executioner  seems  con- 
vinced that  reprisal  will  come  to  him.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
premonition. 


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